


Celestial Bodies

by AnontheNullifier



Series: Celestial Bodies [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: And then many more after, Comics level PDA, Domestic Fluff, Engaged, Evolution of relationship from friends to spouses, F/M, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Occasionally steamy, Vision learns about humans, getting married, pure fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2018-08-30 13:33:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 93,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8535118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnontheNullifier/pseuds/AnontheNullifier
Summary: A series of loosely related, standalone short stories tracking the ever evolving relationship between Wanda and Vision.





	1. Gravitational Pull

**Author's Note:**

> There is no plot for this collection, though I am doing my best to keep things chronological and do make some minor call-backs to prior chapters, though it is not necessary to have read any of the previous chapters to understand the current chapter. This is also a spot for fluff, pure fluff because everyone needs a little bit more fluff in their lives. Additionally, if you ever want to suggest a scenario/topic/prompt, I'm always up for the challenge! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

“Where's your moon at?” 

Wanda glances up from her tea, fingers curled to better absorb its heat to counteract the chilly pre-winter day, and finds Natasha grinning at her over a pancake. “My moon?”

The way her eyes revolve dramatically makes Wanda think she must have missed something obvious. “I'm looking for Vision, Steve wants us to try some new weight machines today, figured he could help me set it up.”

“I believe he’s in the lab.”

“Perfect.” Natasha shoves the last bite of pancake in her mouth and walks away, leaving Wanda in confused silence. With a shrug her thoughts settle on the steam curling up and over her nose, releasing all ill thoughts and aches from the night before.  Soon after Natasha leaves, Sam strolls in, one hand deep in his pocket and the other gripped around a protein bar. “Morning!” She briefly matches his smile and nods her head as she sips her tea. “Flying solo this morning?” The word solo cracks in half as he laughs. 

Wanda places the cup on the table, chipped fingernails tapping a steady rhythm. “What does that mean?”

“Come on, really?”  She doesn’t respond beyond staring at him. “You really don't know?”  He stares at her in disbelief, eyebrows raising the longer she stays silent. When she shakes her head he collapses into the seat across from her, his ever present smirk making her feel both comfortable and yet oddly on edge. “We were all talking about how Vision seems to always like, be drawn towards you.  So Tony said he was your moon, caught up in the gravitational pull of planet Wanda.” For added effect he lifts the half-eaten protein bar in one hand and an apple in the other and then makes the bar circle around the fruit with a whooshing sound. 

There is an air of insinuation in the information, but Wanda merely shrugs, unperturbed at his words. “I guess I hadn't noticed.” 

“It's not a bad thing,” his fingers stop moving long enough for the protein bar to find its way back to his mouth which makes the next words slightly muddled. “We just realized it last night because he was gliding towards us until he saw you on the couch and then, well, he just kind of drifted over to you.”  Once he leaves, Wanda resumes her quiet ritual, eyes occasionally wandering to check the time and thoughts attempting to remain calm and unobtrusive.  

  
  
  


Despite her best efforts, their pointed looks and Sam’s hand gestures won’t let her ignore the fact that Vision is by her side for most of the training that afternoon, even though they weren’t originally partnered together. But, she has silently gesticulated back in a complicated interpretive dance, her powers are the only thing strong enough to safely protect Vision if, for some reason, he drops the weights.  Although he never does. 

“Okay Vizh, I think I’m done.” Gently he reaches over her head to re-lock the machine, fingers unintentionally brushing against hers. Wanda finds sunbursts spreading under her skin, cheeks reddening at this new acute awareness of their position to each other. She glances around to make sure no one is watching them.  “Thanks.”  His casual hover and attentive stare does not betray if he has detected the awkwardness in her stance, particularly the way her arms cannot find a comfortable position at her side. “Well, I need to shower so.”

“Enjoy your shower.” A soft smile and nod of the head lets her know that he is utterly serious and for a moment Wanda can feel her body shifting towards him. “I am planning on watching a movie later, if you wish to join.”

Her feet shuffle back and her arms fold across her chest as she smiles. “I’d like that.”

  
  


Back when they first arrived at the compound and Wanda was still reeling from the loss of Pietro, there was a day where Vision spent the afternoon informing her of several studies he had read. The intention, or so it seemed, was to comfort her by explaining why her mind was incapable of letting go of her brother. He was wholly unsuccessful but, much to Wanda's surprise, his words from that day still come to mind often.

_ “Wanda, do not think of a white bear.” _

_ “Why not?” _

_ “Just do not think of a white bear.” _  If she remembers correctly she rolled her eyes and her body followed, curling around a pillow on the bed and ignoring the gentle yet insistent man at her side.  _ “Wanda, what are you thinking about?”  _

_ “A stupid white bear mauling Pietro.” _

_ “Precisely.” _ That was the first of many times she threw a pillow at his face and then laughed at how his eyes would follow the pillow as it fell, confusion evident in his fingers running haltingly along the edge of the fabric as he assessed the reason for its attack on his face. But now, just like the damn bear, she cannot stop thinking about the way he moves in her presence. 

Based on three days of observation, she has identified two categories of approach. The first is purposeful, like when they meet for their twice weekly levitation sessions and then later in the evening when he joins her for a planned movie in the common area. In these instances he simply glides, or walks depending on his mood, straight towards her, the sole purpose of the action is to join her. But, it is in the second type of approach that she begins to understand Sam and Nat’s comments.  

At lunch she makes sure to arrive before Vision, but after Steve so that she can position herself in a different part of the room. As Vision enters the room, his path is clearly set on the table where everyone else is seated, until he glances to his side. If she had not been watching him closely, Wanda is unsure if she would ever have noticed the change, but once he sees her, he turns and instead of a straight line,  there is a subtle, fluid arc to his path as he readjusts his movements to approach her. “Are you not joining us for lunch?”

“Oh, I’ll be right there.” His smile is enough to halt her observations for the rest of the afternoon. 

Now that Wanda has realized his trajectory in conjunction with her own, it becomes a point of contentment. There is an oddly blissful comfort in knowing he will always find her for company, or have her back during a fight, or listen to her fears when everyone else is asleep, or simply sit in silence and watch the rain fall. And she doesn’t think about it again for several weeks regardless of the comments and looks from teammates. 

  
  
  


“I do not think I enjoy this game.”

Wanda pauses, hand hovering above the board with a blue chip clicking back and forth against her rings. A smirk crawls across her face as she places it. “Is it because you’ve lost four, sorry, five times in a row now?”

“No,” which is said with more hesitation than Vision typically allows in his voice. Her smirk grows into a grin as she feels his thoughts swirl, attempting to identify the reason for his dislike of the game other than his need to win. “It is mainly a game of luck, which is frustrating. There is a small amount  strategy but it is nearly impossible to plan moves in advance.” 

Red envelopes the blue and green chips on the board, lifts them into the air, and separates them out to each side. “Are you saying you don’t want to play again?

“Not at all,” his fingers expertly shift his chips into five neat piles, before he shuffles the deck of cards. “I am attempting to construct an algorithm in order to form a strategy, so the more games we play the stronger the algorithm will be.”

Wanda laughs, settling her back against the couch cushion and raising her legs to rest her feet on his thigh. “You are such a sore loser.” 

A tiny, barely perceptible smile flirts with his lips while he deals the cards out. As he waits for her to take the first turn his hand comes to rest on her feet, thumb absentmindedly rubbing her left sole.  “Have you heard of binary planets before?” Wanda shakes her head while she places a chip on the board and draws a card. “There was a fascinating documentary the other night about them. They are planets that orbit each other after being drawn into the same gravitational field.” 

“How is it different from a planet and a moon?”

“With a moon, it is typically smaller and orbits around the planet,” his fingers deftly place a chip right next to hers before drawing a card. “Binary planets would essentially form their own bound orbit and remain together. Granted, there is no evidence of such a thing yet, but one third of their simulations formed binary planets and the calculations suggested the orbits would remain bound for billions of years.”  

Wanda stares at him, weighing his words, curious to know if their teammates ever told Vision the Planet Wanda theory. “Can you show me?” 

“Of course, I saved the documentary to watch again-”

“Not that, come here,” Wanda reluctantly pulls her feet from his hand and stands up, arm outstretched and beckoning him to follow suit. He stands, though uncertainty mars the intricate lines of his face, bunching them together around the Mind Stone. “Okay, so I’ll be a planet. How would a moon orbit as compared to another planet?” 

Vision stands still for several seconds before his shoulders stoop infinitesimally and she chuckles at his reluctant sigh as he begins to walk around her. “Orbits are typically elliptical,” as he says it he walks close to her when he passes her side and makes a wide arc once he passes in front of or behind her. “With binary planets, the orbit is much closer.” With this revolution he steps close enough that she can feel his cashmere sweater brush against her arm and it makes her begin to turn with him so she can watch him as he moves. “You are actually acting appropriately.”

“How so?” 

“Well,” the way he hesitates when their eyes meets lets loose the butterflies in her stomach, “eventually the planetary rotations would slow until the same side of each planet is always facing inward.” At some point they stop turning around and stand still, facing each other with barely an inch between them . “Did that illuminate things for you?”

A smile parts her lips and her hands act of their own accord when they rest upon his chest. “It did, thank you.” Her fingers tap against his muscles before pulling back, and it does not go unnoticed the way he ever so slightly leans towards her when she steps away. “I think I should get some sleep.” Wanda brushes a hand against his arm before walking away. “Night, Vizh.”

“Sleep well, Wanda.”  

She makes it ten feet before the effort of walking away becomes too much and she glances back to see him settled back on the couch and cleaning up the game. When he looks up at her, she knows her fate is sealed and can feel her body heading back into his gravitational pull. “Do you want to watch that documentary and I’ll just fall asleep on the couch with you?”

“Of course,” they share a smile and Wanda curls up next to him, head resting on his chest and his arm slowly descending on her back. 

Perhaps their teammates were wrong in their assumptions.  In fact, as she lays there with his fingers running through the ends of her hair and her own tracing along his chest, she realizes that it makes sense to redefine their gravitational relationship because she seeks him out just as much as he does her. So she resolves to correct Nat the next time she makes a comment, explaining that she has a planet, not a moon, thank you very much. 

 


	2. Overly Complicated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vision doesn't understand why humans make simple tasks so complicated.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

Vision shifts in his seat so that he is facing Wanda, “Yes, I do.”

“It's just,” she hesitates before reaching out and grabbing his hand, thumb circling against his wrist, “The first time can be really overwhelming.”

“I have watched you complete the task several times before.” 

“Yeah, but trust me, watching isn't quite the same. I can help you if you want.”

The concern glistening in her eyes makes him reconsider his actions, but, he determines, it is important for him to learn this skill on his own. Vision brings his other hand to cover hers and squeezes slightly, “I will be fine. If I have any troubles then I will certainly involve you.” 

“Okay,” Wanda rustles through her pockets, eventually pulling out a wrinkled piece of paper containing a list made up of five different sets of handwriting. “Here you go, I'll stay out here but seriously,” their eyes meet and he smiles at her in an attempt to ease her nerves, serenity running through his veins when she smiles back, “call if you want backup.” 

With one final squeeze of her hand, Vision opens the car door and steps out into the freezing air. He takes one unnecessary breath before walking into the building. “Good morning.”

Vision smiles in what he hopes is a friendly manner (Rhodes once told him that fake smiling may not be for his face, after which Rhodes’ bowl of ice cream glowed red and flew into the garbage can). “Good morning.”

He walks up to the counter and the woman behind it (name: Alisha, according to the tag pinned to the green apron that is haphazardly tied around her waist) stares at him in silence. Vision glances up at a large menu board and instantly begins to feel overwhelmed by the sheer number of options. In an effort to calm himself he smooths the wrinkles from the paper in his hands. “What do you want?” He looks back up at the barista, her lips forming a thin, clearly annoyed line and the angles of her body suggest she is none too happy to be there. 

“My apologies,” Vision lifts the list up to read from it despite already having memorized the order. “I'll take one medium hot chocolate, a-”

“Will that be with whole milk?”

His eyes swiftly take in the list again and a tightness grips at his chest when he can't find the answer. “What are the other options?”

The barista sighs, hips shifting and eyes rolling at another employee as she mouths something that might be ‘oh boy!’ or ‘shoot me’ but he can't tell. “We have whole milk, 2%, skim, and soy.”

The hot chocolate is for Steve and so he weighs the nutritional and dietary value of each kind as it applies to overall body mass. “Whole milk. Next-”

“Milk, white, or dark chocolate?”

He glances at the list again even though he knows all Steve wrote was hot chocolate. “Milk chocolate?”

“Any flavor shots or whip?” 

Before he can ask the options she lifts a finger to the far right side of the menu where it lists fifteen different flavors. Perhaps Wanda was right in her concern, he can feel the choices debilitating his thoughts especially when he notices a tacked on handwritten list of five additional options and a sentence about combinations of flavors. “No extra flavor and yes to whipped cream.” 

“Okay, name?”

Vision almost says his own until he notices the sharpie poised over the cup. “Steve.”

The woman gives him a suspicious glance before writing STEVE on the cup. “You don't look like a Steve.”

“It is for a friend,” the list pops up as he waves it in explanation, imagining it to be the limpest, most wrinkled white flag in existence. She gives no indication of what she thinks other than to stare at him awaiting the next item, fingers tapping against the register. “Two large coffees.”

“What roast?”

And of course there are five different kinds: Sumatran, Colombian, hazelnut, morning blend, and decaf. Vision is confident that decaf is not to be considered. He attempts to remember the bags of coffee beans in the compound, though it has been awhile since he looked as he was banned from making coffee after catching the coffee pot on fire three times in a row. “Colombian.”

He watches as she grabs two cups and a small sense of relief loosens the tension in his shoulders as he prepares for the next order. “Do you want cream and sugar in these?” The tension returns coiling up and around his neck like a noose.

Natasha he is pretty certain takes her coffee black, or he presumes so since Clint has made several jokes about her soul matching her coffee. Then, if he recalls correctly, Sam's coffee always has a light brown appearance which would indicate at least some cream. “One black for Natasha and one with cream and sugar for Sam”

She scribbles names on the cups and adds the appropriate ingredients. “Next.”

Blissfully Rhodes has clearly ordered from this place before and Vision can feel his lips lifting in triumph as he orders. “A medium peppermint mocha with skim milk and no whipped cream.” 

Psychologically speaking, perceptions of behavior are often interpreted using current emotions which may explain why he thinks the barista smiles malevolently as she leans her elbows on the counter. “Will that be hot, iced, or blended and do you want an extra shot?”

“I think,” briefly he turns to glance outside, a small hope that Wanda will see him and come in to finish the order. Instead, she appears to be singing and dancing in the car, which, oddly enough, gives him a renewed sense of purpose and a fleeting smile. “Hot and no need for an extra shot, far too early in the morning for that.”

“Name?”

“Rhodes.” As the marker rises and falls with her writing he is unsure if he should correct her on the spelling since she seems to think he is ordering for the street. 

“Anything else?”

“Yes, one more.” Now Vision moves with confidence as he selects an earl gray tea bag and hands it to the barista. “Small tea with a splash of whole milk, honey, cinnamon, and a pump of orange.” He has heard Wanda order this drink every Tuesday for four months during their weekly get-out-of-the-compound trips. In addition, he also makes it for her every so often, though his concoction is more traditional with a steeped orange peel instead of syrup. “That one will be for-”

She writes something on the cup before sending it down the line. “I got it.” Now that everything's been ordered, the smiling barista seems friendlier than before as she reads him the total and swipes the credit card. “Drinks will be down there, have a good day.” 

“You too.” 

When he arrives back at the car, the door opens before he can reach for the handle and then the drink tray floats out of his hands and hovers between the seats while he sits down and buckles in. “So,” Wanda greets him with a broad, carefree smile, “how'd it go?”

Now that he is away from it all, his body relaxes and he can feel his shoulders fall into a more casual position as he leans his head back against the seat, his eyes falling on her face and taking in as much comfort from her smile as he can. “It was truly exhausting.” 

“On a scale of 1 being laying in bed watching a movie to 10 being that one time you shut Ultron out of the internet, how exhausting”

“Surprisingly close to Ultron.” The vibrations from her laughter pass into his body as she places her hand on his arm, working their way from his shoulder and through his chest until his own laugh joins hers. “Why is it so complicated?”

Wanda shrugs and leans forward just enough so that her face is now approximately five inches from his own, hand briefly squeezing his arm. “I honestly don’t know.” She sighs and sits back all the way in her seat. “Let’s get back before these drinks get cold and then maybe we can just curl up and read for awhile?” He nods slowly at her, confirming the desirability of that option with a brief thumbs up (a gesture Sam has been encouraging him to use) and enjoying the melody of her laughter meeting his auditory receptors again. Gently the drinks descend into his lap and his fingers grip the tray while Wanda grabs her tea and examines it. “Well look at you.”

His body perks up in curiosity as he leans over the center console to examine the cup. Scribbled in horrendous handwriting is _Nice accent, call me_ and a phone number. “Wanda, I assure you-”

“I don't blame her, your voice is pretty sexy.” She closes the distance between their faces and kisses his cheek, which, in all honesty, erases the uneasiness from the trip and freezes him in place, unsure what to do, think, or say. “Okay, let’s head back.” Her hand nudges him so that he is no longer leaning into her seat, and he spends the drive back stealing glances at her as she sings in the car, amazed at how one simple action can suddenly make life so much more complicated. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!


	3. Kiss the Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda is thirsty and only one thing can quench it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Figured I should use my occasionally steamy tag. Hope you enjoy!

Wanda has always prided herself on her patience and understanding. Growing up Pietro would often act impulsively to get what he wanted, rarely stopping to think, much less wait. Whereas Wanda waited, strategizing the best method and time to fully reap the rewards. But right now? Right now she is just about done being patient because she's been waiting for Vision to kiss her for weeks. 

This insatiable need started at one of Stark’s fancy parties. Prior to that night she was fairly content with their slowly moving slightly-closer-than-friends relationship. But then Vision, wearing an extremely well-fitted tux, got caught up in the moment of acting all gentlemanly and kissed her hand, eyes staring at her while he did it, lips lingering a bit longer than socially acceptable. Wanda shivers and rubs her hand, she almost tackled him to the ground, and probably would have if not for all the photographers. Since then she has, with a small amount of trepidation, decided to initiate more romantic gestures in an effort to kickstart the inertia of their relationship. A kiss on the cheek, the forehead, the back of his hand, his shoulder, and one time on the tip of his nose which made his eyes cross and heart palpitate faster than she’d ever felt before. Yet she hesitates to go for the mouth, despite the increasingly hard to resist allure, because she feels like his first kiss should be his choice. 

Wanda checks the clock and swears, realizing that she lost track of time. Vision will be there in two minutes, and with him that means exactly two minutes down to the millisecond. If she wants this to happen she probably shouldn't make them lay in a pile of clothes while they watch the movie. Quickly she wraps the clothes in red and tosses them into the closet. The pillows on the bed float and readjust until they look at least somewhat decent. Under a guise of wanting the room to smell great, she walks around and lights several candles before dimming the overhead lighting. Even if she is being patient there is no reason not to be encouraging. 

Right on time there is a noticeable absence of a knock when he arrives, smoothly walking through the wall, popcorn in one hand and a bag of licorice in the other. “Good evening, Wanda.”

“Hey Vizh.” She grabs the snacks and puts them on the nightstand before throwing herself at him, arms wrapping firmly around his waist and a smile forming on her lips as he eagerly returns the hug. “Ready for the movie?” 

“Yes, what are we watching?” 

“I thought we'd go classic with the Little Mermaid,” because she is far past the point of subtlety and is hoping an entire song devoted to kissing the girl will give him the hint. 

Vision begins to extract himself from their hug but stops with his arms awkwardly hovering over her back when she doesn't budge. “Are we watching the movie standing up?” Wanda smirks up at him as she pulls him backwards with her so that they tumble onto the bed. Though he complies, she can feel her arms sink into his semi-transparent body as he half lays, half hovers above her, irises spinning in confusion and concern at her actions. “I do not wish to crush you.”

“Says the person who pinned me to the ground this morning during hand-to-hand.” Which would have also been an excellent time for him to kiss her, not that she is keeping a list of missed opportunities. 

Vision opens his mouth to provide a logical differentiation between this morning and now, but words fail him as he stares at her. Eventually she can feel his density return to normal, her hands now resting on his back, fingers running up and down along the lines of his sweater. The feel of his body over hers is exhilarating and Wanda decides that patience be damned, this is happening. And so when he attempts to readjust his position to see the tv, her arms lock him in place. Curiosity shines in his eyes as he watches her, head cocked to the side and his thoughts racing too quickly for her to parse them out besides a general sense of attempting to solve the puzzle that is Wanda. The longer he stares at her the slower his irises spin, and as her fingers continue to trace his back and shoulders the change in his demeanor is noticeable though unreadable. “Do you have any intention of watching the movie?” 

Wanda bites her lip, shaking her head no, and the way his mouth shyly curves into a nervous smile almost does her in. Slowly he raises a hand to brush a strand of hair from her face, his fingers then running along her cheek and down her neck, causing her to shut her eyes and simply enjoy the closeness. Though she isn't watching him, she can feel him lean into her and can sense the way his face gets closer, all thoughts rushing from her mind (the last one being a quick “god yes”) when his slightly hot breath caresses her lips. 

And then everything happens so suddenly she can barely comprehend it. Her door swishes open, Vision goes full incorporeal and phases down through her, the bed, and the floor as Clint’s voice echoes in the room. “Wanda!” 

Disappointment is quickly replaced by rage as she sits up, red eyes glowing as she glares at the man in the doorway. “Clint! I'm going to kill you!”

“What?” he walks into the room and stares at the television for a few seconds, “Were you making out to the Little Mermaid?” He plops down on the edge of the bed and shrugs his shoulders, “To be fair, Laura and I have done far worse in front of Disney.”

Wanda just wants to yell into a pillow, but that will have to wait and so she begrudgingly joins him at the end of the bed. “It's just,” her voice trembles from the way her excitement is crashing down into anger and despair, “he was about to kiss me for the first time.”

“Aw,” Clint wraps an arm around her shoulders and shakes her from side to side just like Pietro used to when he was attempting to make her feel better while also laughing at her misfortune. “I don't know if I should apologize or brag about my incredible dad senses.” 

“I should probably go find him.”

“You could or,” his voice slides from low to high as he winks at her, “Natasha is playing bartender right now.” When she hesitates he gives her shoulders another squeeze. “Listen, I know I'm old, but if I recall my own early days of dating, the first time I was caught in a compromising position I think I hid for like three days. Give him some time. If he wanted to kiss you today, he will tomorrow as well.” Clint stands up and pulls her arm until she reluctantly joins him. “I, however, am only here tonight and Natasha is insisting on a shot competition. I need your Sokovian tolerance on my side.” 

Wanda glances around at her room with a sigh before waving her hand to extinguish the candles. “Fine, but the second he resurfaces-”

“You can go jump his bones or whatever you kids call it these days.” 

 

 

The next morning arrives with a throbbing headache and a dry mouth. Wanda reaches towards her nightstand and rejoices at what feels like a half full water bottle, she brings it to her lips and chugs the rest of its contents. A strangled groan escapes her mouth as she falls back onto the pillows, pulling the comforter up to block her eyes from the cruelty of daylight. Suddenly the water bottle disappears from her hand and she peeks over the blanket to find mesmerizing blue eyes staring at her in concern. “How are you feeling?”

Despite the massive hangover she still manages what she thinks is a semi-seductive smile. “Hey stranger, long time no see.” 

But the way his mouth quirks to the side in mild confusion and his eyes shift in contemplation makes her realize the seduction is failing. “Wanda, I have only been gone for ten minutes.” Vision places a steaming mug and a water bottle on her nightstand before gently placing his hands along her back to help her sit up. “I brought you some peppermint tea, an extra bottle of water to keep your fluid intake high, and some ibuprofen. I will be back momentarily with your breakfast.”

“Thanks,” he smiles at her and phases through the wall, leaving her alone again. The first thing she reaches for is the ibuprofen, disregarding the instructions on the bottle and swallowing three pills. Next she pulls herself out of bed and shuffles to the bathroom, horrified at the extreme bedhead and what may be puke on her shoulder. No wonder she was getting nowhere with him. She cranks the knob in the shower, strips down, and allows herself the chance to relax in the hot water. 

By the time she dries herself off and ties the belt of her robe, Wanda finds that she is feeling significantly better. Her mood increases even more when she walks out to find Vision relaxing on her bed, legs crossed at the ankle as he watches The Little Mermaid. “How bad was I last night?” Wanda crawls back under the covers and cuddles into his side. 

“Besides throwing up several times you were quite loquacious and happy,” as he says it he reaches his arm around her shoulders, hand running lazily along her upper arm. “It was an illuminating conversation.” 

“What does that mean?”

“Do you not remember?” 

Wanda can feel his interested stare, but no matter how hard she tries, the last thing she recalls is sitting across from Natasha with a shot glass in her hand. “I can’t remember.” There is a soft hmmm to her side and she scans the room for any hints of what happened last night. As her eyes sweep over everything, she notices the tell tale signs that Vision was in her room for an extended period. There is a pile of books next to the chair which has pillows stacked in the perfect formation for optimal back support. Additionally, her room is always much cleaner after he stays with her, which he attributes to boredom and his general need for organization. “Were you here all night?” She can sense him nodding next to her. “Vision, what exactly did we talk about last night?”

He waits until she finally meets his eyes to respond, arm wrapping more firmly around her shoulders which, though comforting, is always a sign that she may not like what he is about to say. “I apologized for my sudden departure and then you outlined, in impressive detail, the numerous occasions in which you wished I had kissed you. As I said, it was quite illuminating as I never realized it was a socially appropriate action for most of the situations.”

“Oh my god,” she reaches down and grabs the comforter from her lap, pulling it over her head and sliding down into the mattress. Heat builds in her cheeks the longer she thinks about his words and she wishes that she had the ability to phase through the bed to escape.

The mattress dips underneath her as Vision stands up and she assumes he is leaving until the blanket lifts and he slides in with her, cocooning them in a makeshift blanket fort. His face is so close to hers that she can easily count every rotation of his irises. “I apologize, had I realized you would not remember I would have insisted on having the conversation today.”

If they talked about it, Wanda wonders if it meant they actually did something about it as well. Her heart drops at the possibility of not remembering their first kiss. “Did we do anything else?”

“No.” Relief rushes through her at his words and then her breath comes to a halt when his fingers come up to brush along her neck, an odd smile playing across his lips. “I apologize again for not detecting the social cues earlier, it was never my intention to cause you distress or annoyance.” 

Without breaking eye contact with him, her wrists flicks the lock on the door, just in case Clint’s dad senses start tingling. “It’s okay, I, um,” the words escape her as he wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her across the tiny chasm between them until their bodies are pressed together. Gently he leans in and places a kiss on her cheek. “Oh,” and then he peppers her jawline with fluttering kisses, which causes her to grin while twisting her fingers into his sweater, “don’t be a tease.” 

He laughs into her neck, placing another kiss on her cheek before moving his face to be level with hers. “I look forward to your promise from last night, by the way.”

“What, um, was that?” Words barely make it out of her mouth as she presses her body into his, drawn in and enraptured by the sheer devotion in his eyes. 

Vision closes the distance until their lips are barely separated. “Once I kiss you the first time, you intend kiss me whenever and for however long you desire.” God, does she love the frankness of drunk Wanda because after all of this time he finally leans in and their lips meet.


	4. Gobble Til You Wobble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vision and Wanda are in charge of cooking Thanksgiving dinner.

A high pitched, annoying beeping resounds throughout the room, bouncing around until Wanda finally stirs and red envelops the clock until it quiets. She rolls to the side and squints at the green numbers, five o’clock, then rolls back, arm dramatically pulled up over her eyes. With her other arm she reaches across her bed, frowning when she finds it cold. Slowly she inches her way up into a slouch and stares at her hands, red twisting and turning through her fingers as she tries to wake up. Wanda finally lifts her eyes higher than her fingers and notices steam rising from a mug on her nightstand and the corner of her mouth ticks up a fraction as she grabs it. There is a paper carefully placed under the mug, clearly meant for her to find, and as she glances at it everything makes sense. Somehow she had forgotten that today was The Day, the one that Vision has been fretting about for over two weeks and still is clearly worried about given the very detailed schedule he made for her (and she is guessing for everyone else as well).

According to the schedule she needs to be downstairs in exactly forty five minutes, which confirms that he set her alarm, because if she had done it she would be sleeping for another forty. But, she’s up already and might as well make use of the time, so she settles into her pillows and brings the tea up to her nose, inhaling the citrus steam. Once the tea is gone, she showers, gets dressed, and pulls a box out from under her bed, hugging it close as she makes her way downstairs, five minutes earlier than her schedule requires.

When Wanda enters the kitchen, she finds Vision wearing Tony’s “Kiss the Cook” apron and failing miserably at flipping what appear to be pancakes. “Morning, Vision.”

“Good,” he pauses as he slides the spatula under the next victim, carefully lifting it up, and much too slowly turning it over so that the half cooked pancake slides into a puddle instead of flipping over, “morning.”

Wanda places the box down on the counter and moves to stand next to him at the stove. “May I?” It's not quite a throw, but the way he passes her the spatula indicates a growing impatience with the task. With one hand she pats his shoulder and with the other she positions the spatula, expertly sliding it under the pancake. A smile forms on her lips at the curiosity radiating from him as she quickly flips it over.

“I see, it is all in the quickness of the wrist rotation.”

She allows him to take back over and watches as he hesitantly approaches the skillet. Vision’s concentration is so intense that anyone could read his thoughts, which, from her experience, means he is likely to lose to the food again. In an attempt to divert his attention and let his natural instincts take over, she leans back against the counter so that she is facing him, “You know that apron is a dangerous thing to wear around here. Someone will probably take you up on the offer.”

A minuscule quirk of his lip mars the concentration on his face “You are correct, Sam can be quite amorous.”

Wanda rolls her eyes at him but can’t help smiling at the brief, but noticeable glint of mischief in on his face that makes way for joy when he looks at the successfully flipped pancake. “I guess it's a good thing he's not here right now, I don’t like competition.” In what has become a natural movement, she lifts up on her toes and grips the apron in order to bring Vision’s face down to hers, kissing him long enough to feel his body relax and arch into hers. “You may want to attend to the other pancakes before they burn.”

Instantly he turns from her, hands nervously working the spatula to save the rest of her breakfast. With him preoccupied, Wanda grabs the box and waits with it in her hands until he reaches a point of not having to worry about burning anything. “Hey, I got you something.” The way surprise draws his eyes wide and his movements become hesitant as he sizes her up is adorable. “Here.” She hands the box to him and watches his fingers tease apart the string holding it together.

“I,” Vision lifts the cloth from the box and holds it out in front of him, “am not sure I understand it.”

“Put it on.” Instead of untying the apron he is currently wearing, Vision simply phases out of it, letting it fall to the floor (which makes Wanda feel a bit hot and bothered at the thought of the possibilities) before putting on the apron from the box. Even though she told herself that she wouldn’t do it, Wanda starts laughing.

Vision stands in front of her, confused and somewhat uncomfortable, wearing a green apron with a cartoon turkey and Gobble Til You Wobble on the front. “Can you explain it to me?”

“You'll figure it out.” Wanda grabs the unburned pancakes and sits at the counter, feeling the way Vision’s thoughts slowly circulate around the words on his apron until he suddenly looks up.

“I believe I understand, turkeys are known to make a gobbling sound and the word gobble means to eat. When one has eaten too much the way they walk could be considered wobbling. From my understanding of the holiday, the entire point is to eat in excess.” His hands run along the apron as he studies it in more detail, cheeks lifting as he smiles up at her. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. So what’s the plan today?”

Vision holds a finger up, indicating that she just has to wait a moment as he walks into the common space and returns to the kitchen wheeling in a whiteboard covered in meticulous handwriting. The day Steve told him that he could be in charge of cooking Thanksgiving dinner (only if he was supervised), Vision immediately ordered the board and spent copious hours watching the Food Network and taking notes. “As you can see,” he indicates the minute to minute schedule on the board, “we have a lot of work to do, I already prepared the _mise en place_ last night so that today we simply need to assemble and cook.”

“When will everyone be back?”

Unsurprisingly he flips the board around to reveal an hourly schedule for each member of the team, tracking the various volunteering and public appearances.“Based on the most recent estimates, everyone will coalesce by 4:30 this afternoon.”

“So,” with a flick of her wrist the board turns back to the cooking schedule so that Wanda can examine the tasks, “since we have the compound to ourselves for almost 10 hours, when do we get to make out on the couch?” Even though they quite easily adapted to the new intimacy of their relationship, Wanda has yet to convince him to take it outside of the privacy of either of their rooms.

Vision’s hands smooth the front of the apron as he moves his eyes between her, the couch, and the board. “I came to the same realization last night.” He grabs a marker and circles 1:15-1:30pm. “After moving things around this seems to give us the most time where nothing needs to be prepped, cooked, or transferred.”

“Try not to be so spontaneous, Vizh.” Four months ago those words would have brought a frown to his face, but the half cocked smile he wears now bewitches her until she's wrapped her arms around his neck. “You sure that's the only time?”

There is no resistance in his muscles as she languorously captures his lips, triumph spreading like fire in her body as his hands grip her waist. Then a kitchen timer goes off and he steps back, fingers reluctantly releasing her. “Unfortunately, yes. We should get started. My understanding is that this day is extremely important and I do not wish to ruin our teammates’ day.”

“I guess we could think about their needs as well.”

 

The hours pass by surprisingly fast and Wanda finds that she enjoys cooking with him. Though she has helped him in the kitchen before it is typically once things have gone poorly and she has to deal with a fire and a stressed out Vision. But joining him from the beginning, everything is organized and placed in an easy to decode manner, the tasks broken down into what he calls specific, easily attainable goals. With her presence there have only been two close calls on fires and everything has tasted delicious after re-seasoning. Wanda also finds it inexplicably intimate being included in his grand plans, a smile forever lingering on her lips as he explains the reasons for his food choices, shows her a video from the Food Network website, or insists that she try the sauce just one more time after an extra pinch of salt. Her favorite part, however, is when he reaches around her for the pepper grinder (that conveniently keeps traveling away from him), and his chest ever so slightly brushes against her back.

Which is why she assumes Vision is trying to yet again to find the pepper when he steps behind her until one hand comes to rest on her waist and the other lifts the hair away from her neck. “You are behind schedule.” The sentence breaks apart into pieces as gentle kisses graze a line along her neck and shoulder. Her eyes glance sideways and discover that it is 1:17. Never before has a clock been such a strong aphrodisiac .

“Well,” her breath struggles to come in at regular intervals the longer he stands behind her, his hand now running lazily up and down her arm, “I need to finish mixing this pie filling. So you could help me finish up the rolls, or I could just abandon everything.” Even before the last word leaves her mouth, she regrets it, because he steps away to stop the mixer from over kneading the dough. Wanda quickly finishes up the pumpkin pie, throws it in the oven, and becomes entranced watching his fingers knead the dough on the counter, folding the dough over horizontally, vertically, and then bringing his hands together and pushing down with his palms. “I'm getting jealous of that bread, you know.”

His hands stop and she watches him check the time, the clock taunting her with its sharp display of 1:23. The corners of his mouth fall and his eyes spin into focus as he quickly divvies out the dough into sixteen perfectly even rolls. “May I have a lined sheet pan?”

Immediately Wanda lifts a piece of paper and a pan in a pulsating cloud of red and floats it into his hands. Once it is in the oven she grabs him by the apron and pulls him, quite easily, towards the couch, laughing at the way he encircles her with his arms and lifts her so they can fly the rest of the way. It may be the danger of being in the common room, or the rush of time wasted, but Vision's usual calm, unhurried approach has been replaced with fervent, hungry lips moving against hers, and his hands eliciting heat everywhere they roam. Which is why she attempts to ignore the smell of smoke, wrapping her arms firmly around his back in distraction. But it doesn’t work, and an unplanned whimper leaves her lips when he pulls away to peer over the couch. And then he's gone, phasing through the back of the couch on his way to the kitchen. Wanda closes her eyes and counts to ten, slowly lowering the items floating around the room before standing up and joining him in the kitchen. “What was it?”

Vision holds the pan with the rolls out to her, smoke still rolling off the charred and curling paper beneath the dough. “I believe in our haste we put wax paper instead of parchment.”

“Are they ruined?”

“I believe they are okay,” his fingers poke the dough balls before lifting one and inspecting it. “Yes, the wax does not appear to have melted onto it yet.”

Wanda grabs a new pan and this time puts parchment paper on it. “Well, I think we should probably just stick to cooking today.”

“Agreed,” carefully he peels the rolls from the burned paper and delicately places them on the new sheet, returning it to the oven before snaking an arm around her waist, forehead leaning against hers. “Though that was exhilarating. Perhaps we can try again sometime.” Which causes her eyebrows to raise and a smirk to take over her mouth as she watches him move to study the board. “Ready to get back to work?”

 

The last hours move even quicker than the first due to the immense challenge of ensuring that all the food is done and hot when their teammates come home. Vision flits between basting the turkey, stirring the gravy, and obsessively checking their warming oven to make sure nothing burns, while Wanda focuses on the mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, and four types of butter. “Vizh?”

“Hmm?”

“Is it weird that we are making dinner when we’re the only ones who haven’t celebrated Thanksgiving before?” Though technically, if she recalls correctly, they were both invited to Clint’s last year but volunteered to stay behind to serve as security for the compound.

Vision slows his stirring while he contemplates her words. “Perhaps it is a bit strange, but I have enjoyed it immensely. Though I must say I do not wholly understand the point of this holiday. My research suggests several different meanings and some historical facts that seem unworthy of celebrating.”

Her next words are stifled by the entrance of Sam into the common room, arms spread wide with enthusiasm as he grins in their direction. ““Happy Turkey Day! Oh my God guys, it smells amazing in here.” As their teammates slowly return, Wanda and Vision have to handle yet another task: stopping everyone from eating the food before dinner. Eventually Wanda has to practically glow red from head to foot to convince Rhodes and Natasha that they need to wait thirty more minutes to eat, and she smirks as they slowly and somewhat fearfully back away from the kitchen.

It’s once Steve arrives that they all sit down, excitement jumping around the table at the impressive spread of food. “Before we eat,” Sam groans and holds his stomach to indicate he is dying of hunger, to which Steve rolls his eyes and continues, “I want to raise a toast to this amazing meal and in thanks to having the greatest teammates anyone could ask for. Happy Thanksgiving everyone.”

There is a resounding shout of “Here here!” before they all take a drink. Wanda smiles at the clamour of voices arguing over who gets the mashed potatoes first and who deserves the drumsticks and why can’t they eat pie now, but mostly, she enjoys the way Vision’s hand finds hers under the table. If this is what Thanksgiving is always like, Wanda believes she could grow accustomed to celebrating this strange new holiday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those who celebrate it, Happy Thanksgiving! To those who don't, happy random Thursday!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it!


	5. Drinking Buddies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda helps Vision explore the reason humans drink in excess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was suggested by Anya, who wanted to see drunk Wanda. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Vision freezes, realizing that Wanda has asked him a question. Quickly he plays back through his auditory recordings until he can identify her words enough to answer. “Yes, I am doing okay.”

She studies him, mouth forming a straight line and he waits, anticipating the tickle of her powers in his head, but instead she simply asks again. “You sure? Your eyes keep spinning real slow and it's been your turn for about three minutes.” 

“Oh,” Vision glances at the Monopoly board between them and proceeds to roll the dice, moving his dog figurine six spaces, paying her, in her secondary position as the bank, for the property. “Perhaps my mind is wandering a bit more than usual, my apologies.”

With a suspicious glance she picks up the dice and takes her turn, handing him money to pay rent for the property he owns. He quickly collects it and sorts it into the appropriate stacks. “That’s it.” Vision freezes in confusion, hand hovering above the $100 stack. “I just grossly underpaid you for your most expensive property and right before that I pocketed the money you were paying to the bank, both without a single lecture on the morality of cheating. What is bothering you?” 

When he says nothing, hands cup his face, turning it physically until he is looking into Wanda’s wide, doleful eyes. Vision sighs. “I have been contemplating the seeming importance of inebriation in building team camaraderie.”

“Huh.” Wanda pulls her hands from his face and slides back to where she had been sitting. “Why?”

“Several reasons. For instance at dinner tonight the entire conversation revolved around Sam and Rhodes’ drunken adventures. Second, post mission everyone gathers to imbibe alcohol to the point of inebriation, from which sprouts inside jokes that continue for weeks at a time. Third, before every Stark event the only question anyone asks is how much alcohol there will be. Finally, based on movies and television, drinking appears to be a quintessential aspect of the human experience.” 

His eyes track the movements of her face during his explanation, noting first confusion, then amusement, and finally what he believes may be understanding. “Vizh…” gently Wanda places a hand on his shoulder, mouth partially open as she prepares to speak. “You know you are welcome to join us, no one will be upset with you for not drinking. Also, plenty of people don't drink and it doesn't make them any less human.”

“I am aware.” He attempts a nonchalant smile, but the creases deepening around her mouth as she frowns seems to indicate it is not successful. “I simply do not understand the appeal of inebriation and have a difficult time remaining in the environment while the team drinks. How can it be so enjoyable that you are all willing to suffer such pain the following day?” 

Silence befalls the room as she contemplates his words. “I don’t really know how to explain it. You’re right, the hangover doesn’t make it seem worthwhile, and yet, in the moment, I know I seem to forget the consequences until the next morning.”

“At which point you swear never to drink again.”

“Yeah, you’ve heard me say that one too many times.” Wanda laughs, head coming to take the place of her hand on his shoulder. “Do you want to know what it's like?”

Vision wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer. “As with all human nature, I am deeply curious about it. But Dr. Cho and I have determined it is impossible for me to get drunk due my increased metabolic rate and the influence of the Mind Stone.”

“There could be another way.” Without further warning or explanation she enters his mind, her presence a feather light, enjoyable wisp twisting around his carefully organized thoughts. The wisp expands into branching tendrils and suddenly he can feel his own arm as if he was her, the pressure of his muscles against her back and the pleasurable tingle of his fingers lightly brushing the exposed skin where her sweatshirt has fallen. Wanda reaches out a hand and traces his jawline and he experiences both the sensation on his jaw as well as the way the it feels on her finger when his skin transitions to vibranium. “What if,” her hand continues along his face, drawing his eyelids closed at the amount of perceptual information to take in, “you experienced getting drunk like this?”

It is an intriguing prospect, and the longer she stays in his mind like this, hand still lazily tracing the lines of his face, it becomes more convincing. “I believe if I said no it would be akin to staring science in the face and telling it I was unable to commit myself enough to answer the important questions.” She laughs and he smiles at the explosion of warmth in his chest. 

 

 

Wanda insists on waiting until they have a day off from training, and so it is about a week before Vision finds himself at her door, holding a paper bag with vodka and orange juice. Hesitantly he knocks on the door and it immediately slides open, revealing a grinning Wanda. “You know, you choose the oddest times to be polite and knock.” The bag disappears from his grip before she wraps her arms around his waist and tilts her face up, beckoning his own down to kiss her. “You ready for this?”

“I am a bit nervous, actually.” Vision sits on the bed, watching her remove each bottle from the bag and inspecting the labels with an approving glance. “How do we proceed?”

“Let me make a drink,” she fills a tall glass halfway with a clear liquid and the other half with orange juice and then joins him on the bed. “You sure you want do this?” Vision nods. “If at anytime you want me out, let me know.” The lightness of her powers as she enters his mind immediately calms him and the added comfort of the weight of her hand wrapping around his own chases all nervousness from his thoughts. “Well, I guess, cheers!” 

Though he is not the one drinking, Vision grimaces at the burning sensation as it goes down her throat, concern flooding his mind at whether or not it should feel like that or if he is causing Wanda to harm herself. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, it’s supposed to do that.” With a surprising amount of ease she finishes the rest of the drink before making another. “Just so you know, I usually don’t drink this fast.” Upon finishing the second drink, a heat begins to spread under her cheeks and Vision finds himself lifting his hand to his own, brand new to the phenomenon. In addition to the strange heat traveling through her body, Vision also notes that Wanda’s heartbeat is slightly elevated by two beats per minute and her pupils are dilated yet still focused. Which leads to the realization that he has never seen her become drunk, he has only encountered her once she is inebriated. When she speaks, he finds that he is amused at the development of a lazy lilt to her voice that accentuates her accent. “How are you feeling?”

“It is odd,” his mind is hazy and his entire body begins to feel flushed, causing him to run a hand along his arm to assess the actual temperature, which is average. “Is this how it always feels?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Fascinating.” 

It’s after four and a half drinks that he begins to understand the reason why his teammates inhibitions lower, noticing the way not only Wanda’s thoughts, but his own careen around more freely. “Question,” she leans forward, movements loose and uncoordinated as she grabs his collar, “what’s it like to have no hair,” as she says it her hand lets go of his shirt in order to rub the top of his head.

A chuckle emerges from his chest at the look of fascination on her face. “Counter question, what is it like to have hair?”

“Oh, touche.” Wanda pushes away from him and stumbles out of the bed, somehow managing to clumsily stand, pride beaming on her face as she holds a hand out to him. “Come here.” Despite knowing that he is, in fact, very sober, Vision finds that his body does not respond with as much finesse as it should when he stands up, causing him to briefly stop and stare at his tingling limbs. “Come on,” she pulls him from his observations and towards the mirror, leaving him alone long enough to bring the chair from the desk over. “Sit down.” Once he is sitting in front of the mirror Wanda moves behind him, bending down and draping her hair over his head, thoughtfully rearranging it until it looks like a poorly made wig.

Vision inspects his reflection, smirking at the ridiculousness of the hair and the amusement on Wanda’s face. “I do not think this style suits me.” 

“No. How about this one?” She leans over his shoulder, her quickening breath hot on his cheek, as she pulls her hair along both sides of his head and brings it to a point at his chin, creating a makeshift beard. He is unable to answer before her laughter causes her to fold over his shoulder, arms hugging his chest as she struggles to control her diaphragm enough to speak. “Maybe hair is just not your thing.” 

“Perhaps not.”

“Vizh?”

Their eyes meet in the mirror and he finds it difficult to read the emotions on her face. “Yes?”

Wanda keeps her hands on his chest as she stumbles the rest of her body around the chair, thoughts running far too fast for him to read along with his own. “Did you know that you are extremely distracting.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh yeah,” she falls forward into his chest, laughing as he attempts to help her up, which he finds is a failing endeavor because his arms seem to not want to listen to his mind. Eventually she sits up, free arm looping around his neck, “Do you remember on the training mission when I accidentally dropped the boulder?”

“I do.”

Wanda snickers into her hand, cheeks reddening as she continues her thought, “I know I said it was because my arms were tired, but really I got distracted when the wind blew your cape. You have a nice ass, especially in your uniform.”

“Oh, thank you.”

A grin splits her face and she leans her forehead against his own. “Oh, you are most welcome. I mean even the day you were born, all I could do was stare at you instead of, you know, getting ready to fight a homicidal robot bent on world annihilation. Maybe even had one or two impure thoughts, because you,” her finger pokes his chest, “are” another poke of emphasis, “magnificent.” A deprecating laugh tumbles from her lips , “I just realized how creepy that must sound, checking you out the day you were born.”

With more effort than usual, Vision brings his hand up to her face, “Our whole life might seem odd to outsiders, but it does not diminish it in the slightest. And I am flattered, you are quite distracting as well.” He leans down to kiss her passionately, but is met with air as she jumps up and grabs his hand.

“Nope, not here.” An enthusiastic tug on his hand encourages him to stand and stare at her, awaiting further elaboration. “Let’s go to the couch.” 

“I believe Rhodes and Sam are having a video game tournament in the common room.”

“How about the training room?”

“Steve is likely working out, he does so every afternoon.”

Her eyelids narrow as a pout overtakes her lips. “The roof?”

Vision turns to point at the drops pelting the window. “Thunderstorms all day.”

“Well,” the way she sashays towards him is, for lack of a better term, intoxicating and he cannot bring himself to look away nor deny the increase in his heart rate and breathing, “you are going to have to control your thirst until we find a suitable place.” Which is difficult to do when she presses herself against his body and brings her lips to linger at the corner of his mouth. 

“You may lead the way, but,” the next words out of his mouth are not going to be received well and so he hesitates before continuing, “could you remove yourself from my mind so that I can aid us in finding an ideal location? Once we find a place you are more than welcome to enter it again.” Wanda sticks her tongue out at him and he feels the fog unfurl from his thoughts, suddenly completely and utterly sober. He blinks as clarity returns to his eyesight and is amazed at the stark difference between inebriation and sobriety, particularly in the way his body moves and reacts to Wanda’s sudden sidestep that almost sends her into the wall. Carefully he grips her arms and rights her body, wrapping an arm securely around her waist as they exit the room and journey through the compound. Sure enough, the common room is filled with the cacophony of yelling and gunfire, Sam standing on the couch and Rhodes leaning far enough forward that he is barely sitting on the cushion anymore. 

“Hey guys!” Sam nods his head at them while keeping his eyes on the tv. “Want to join?”

“I believe we will have to pass today.” A giggle from his side carries across the room and Vision attempts to get them moving again before the others notice Wanda’s state. But she swings herself in front of him and holds a hand up, impish grin spreading from one side of her face to the other as she pulls him the opposite direction into the kitchen. “Wanda?” A finger is clumsily brought to his lips as she shushes him. He closes his mouth and simply watches her while she strolls around the kitchen, stopping occasionally to glance over at the couch. Then, with a broad smile plastered to her face, she places both hands on the counter closest to the refrigerator and lifts herself to sit on it. 

Though she doesn't actually speak, the movement of her lips quite clearly appears to be “Come here,” and, even sober and slightly terrified by their close proximity to the others, Vision finds that his body is drawn in by her gravitational pull. Once he is standing in front of her she motions to his head, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer, and all he can do is nod. Instantly his thoughts slow down, a veil of haze descending, and he realizes why she chose here. It means they don’t have to walk around anymore, the refrigerator blocks the view from the couch and the hallway, so they are likely unseen. Without further hesitation he brings his hand to the back of her head, fingers twisting into her hair, and leans into her body, capturing her lips with his own. He is met with a wave of enthusiasm as her lips move against his, legs cinching around his waist more tightly and her nails drawing lines down his back. When she teasingly runs her tongue along his lips, he stops caring at all if anyone can see them. Gleefully he returns the action, tracing her lips and then laying delicate kisses along her jaw and down her neck, eliciting an audible gasp from her that causes him to smile.

“Uh, what are you two doing in there?” The voice floats into the kitchen and Vision freezes, paralyzed by the possibility of being discovered. 

But Wanda pulls him to her again, yelling a response back before kissing him. “ _Zatknis', Sam. Razve ty ne vidish', chto ya pytayus' soblaznit' moyego lyubovnika_.” 

“Wanda, are you drunk?”

She sighs and turns her head to the side to yell back. “Are you drunk?!” 

There is a split second where Vision is unsure how to describe what he is feeling, it is a new sensation, almost like a turbulent ocean forming in his stomach. He glances at Wanda, ready to ask her what it means, but then he realizes what is happening when he takes in her paling features and the urgency in her eyes. So he lifts her up and quickly phases down into one of the many bathrooms in the compound, gently placing her on the ground and, as he has unfortunately done many times before, pulling her hair back from her face to ensure she does not puke on any of it. He briefly considers asking her to remove herself from his mind, but realizes it is too late, and now that he can feel what she is going through, it reaffirms that he still does not fully understand the appeal of drinking because this is repulsive. 

 

 

“I’m sorry it ended like that.” They are back in Wanda’s room, wrapped up in the comforter with the Princess Bride playing in the background and a half empty pitcher of water on the night stand. “Guess I overdid it a bit.”

“Is that not the point of getting drunk?” His fingers massage her scalp and he smiles (which he can do now that she released him from having to feel her hangover) down at her. The only answer he gets is a shrug and a half hearted, pained groan. “Despite the negative ending, it was a fairly enjoyable experience, though I am not convinced this,” hand waves to indicate her current situation, “is worth it. We could have easily done all of that without alcohol as well.”

“Oh really?”

“Fine, maybe not all of it,.” She rolls her eyes at him and he cannot help but grin at the woman in his arms. “Thank you for allowing me to experience it, bad ending included.”

“Anytime, Vizh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sokovian" translation (courtesy of a lot of awkward playing around on google translate): Shut up Sam, can't you see I'm trying to seduce my lover


	6. Lead a Horse to Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While attending the annual Stark Charity Ball, Wanda realizes for the first time how much she wants Vision to kiss her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was requested by ariosto and expands on the fancy Stark party mentioned in Chapter 3. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy!

Wanda stands uncomfortably against a wall, dress tighter around her waist and chest than she prefers, hair coiffed into a carefully constructed cascading updo, and her makeup heavier and more glittery than she'd like. She imagines that someone could easily put her in a show window with a “do not touch” sign. And it's all thanks to Tony and his annual Stark Charity Ball, a fact that infuriates her. Everything surrounding her is opulent, the blatant show of excess money twisting her stomach into knots at the thought of how many people could have been helped had they even just cut the budget in half and donated the rest.

“Try not to look so homicidal tonight.” Natasha joins Wanda, her impressive ability to be at ease anywhere and in anything on full display as all other eyes in the room follow along with her, including several flashes from the photographers lining the adjacent wall.

“I'll do my best.” Yet Natasha gives her an incredulous eyebrow raise. “Any other words of advice?”

The woman shrugs and even that is done with a seductive elegance. “There tend to be three schools of thought: first is Tony’s, which boils down to ‘eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die’; then there's Steve, who just casually latches on to a teammate or other known entity and avoids all the donors and other rich people vying for his attention.” Natasha stops to smile and wave at a portly gentleman staring at them, he shyly waves back, face starting to resemble a tomato. “Last, Clint and I always made it a game to see who could get the most confidential information from these high rollers. Keeps you occupied and then you have intel for later negotiations.”

“So basically just do whatever I want to do.”

Wanda is unsure if the laugh her comment receives is fully genuine or partially done with polite and practiced grace. Either way it loosens her muscles a bit and encourages a soft chuckle from her own chest. “Pretty much. If anyone is being too insistent in wanting to dance or talk with you, you can always come find me.”

“Thank you.”

A sudden ruckus causes both women to turn and investigate the source. “Well look who finally decided to join us.” The rest of their teammates had been whisked away from the compound that morning, required to attend a supervised tuxedo fitting with Pepper, who, after so many years of Tony showing up in jeans, was taking no chances. At first glance, it appears as if Pepper succeeded in ensuring that all of them are dressed appropriately.

Sam approaches them, bowing in exaggerated formality with a wide grin on his face. “Ladies, you both look beautiful, many hearts will be broken tonight.”

There is more to the conversation, the cadence in the rise and fall of laughter and words fuzzy in the background as Wanda finds her attention drawn to electric blue eyes that haven't blinked since seeing her. Throughout the months since becoming an Avenger she has grown accustomed to such eye contact, usually drawing comfort and safety when he does not waver, but there is something new, something different in his gaze and she can’t pinpoint the exact reason for the heat crawling up her throat. When he finally blinks, her body jolts, startled at the movement and she realizes that she isn’t sure the last time she blinked as well, having been so focused on him. Vision glances to the side, her eyes automatically following, and she notes how their teammates have moved on to the bar. Once Wanda turns back to Vision, she finds him standing in front of her, irises spinning counterclockwise until she smiles, and then they stop spinning as a gentle, oddly nervous smirk crosses his face. “Hey Vizh.”

“Wanda,” he reaches out and his fingers slide underneath hers, lifting her arm up until their joined hands are level with his chest, “You are stunning.” Even though she could read his mind, it's unnecessary in predicting his next action, having caught him reading _The Art of Being a Gentleman_ several nights ago. Despite this foreknowledge, the moment his lips connect with the top of her hand everything stops. Up until this point she had surprisingly (given some other thoughts that have occurred since meeting him) never fully considered the way his lips would feel. She knows the weight of his arm wrapped around her, the exact pressure and pattern of his fingers moving along her shoulder and back, and the way his chest gives only a little bit when she hugs him, but now, now she understands how surprisingly luscious his mouth feels on her skin. Realizing that she has been staring at her hand, her eyes move up and meet his own and a flip inside of her switches and all she can think is Oh...Oh shit, because before now she was content with where they stood, despite never defining a term, but that clearly isn’t good enough anymore. When he pulls his lips away, her body shudders at the loss and Wanda swallows at the tilt of his head and the insatiable curiosity building in his eyes at her response.

“Thanks, you,” the plan is to glance at his clothes and regain her composure, but of course the tux has been tailored to emphasize his broad shoulders and long, muscular legs and her thoughts only cloud faster, “look really good as well.”

“Wanda, are you feeling okay?”

The answer, she finds, is both complicated and yet glaringly simple. Yes she is perfectly okay, minus the tight and now uncomfortably hot dress, and yet, there is an irrational certainty in her mind that if she doesn’t shove him against the wall and slake her thirst with his lips then she might die. A camera flashes, startling Vision enough that he drops her hand and Wanda feels her window of opportunity slip away as more photographers approach in interest. “I’m good, but I’d be better if we made our way far from them.” With a nod he offers her his arm and whisks her into the now crowded room.

 

 

Natasha had suggested a game earlier, but Wanda decides that she doesn't care much for confidential information (though it would be quite easy for her to win), instead she crafts her own game in which only she knows she is playing and she damn well hopes that she’ll win. The rules of the game are simple, find as many inventive and yet not overly blatant ways to convey her newfound desire to Vision, with the end goal being another kiss, but this time a proper one. The only issues she can think of are that one, so far their whatever-it-is-called relationship has consisted of a slow, gentle, and comforting pace, much like approaching a skittish deer in the woods, and so she isn’t sure if he is ready for such things and two, even if he is, the large crowds and many eyes are never going to help.

So she starts small, brushing her fingers along his back when she says hello, squeezing his hand whenever they find themselves standing in a group, and always leaning into him when she laughs. As the night progresses she can tell such subtle gestures are not going to cut it, though he has reciprocated the touches, which is a slight beacon of hope but it only serves to fuel her thirst further. 

Wanda stands at the bar, methodically stirring the Scarlet Witch cocktail in her hand as she watches Vision be dragged by Tony to yet another group of donors. “Earth to Wanda.”

“Oh,” the effort it takes to tear her eyes from Vision’s back (especially given the well-tailored pants) is immense, but she eventually turns to her left. “Hi Sam, how are you doing?”

The transparency of Sam’s emotions is typically refreshing, but the smarmy grin and the way his eyebrows dance at her is confirming that she might not be playing her game as secretly as she thought. “The man can pull off a tux.” Wanda determines the best strategy is to simply nod and continue drinking, unwilling to acknowledge who he is referring to. “Oh, you’re just going to give me the silent treatment huh?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about, you all look great tonight.”

“Sure, sure,” Sam moves his gaze to fall on Vision and Wanda struggles not to give in to his behavioral manipulation and look as well. “I mean, I guess it could just be the twinkle of the lights reflecting off his vibranium, might be distracting.”

“I’m just keeping an eye out because he gets anxious in big groups.” Though her statement is technically true, nothing indicates that he is currently anxious, and even less helpful is the smile that forms on his face before he starts sharing a story with the group.

A shoulder nudging hers draws her attention back and Sam’s original grin has transformed into one that is commonly followed with a comment such as _Oh, that’s adorable_. “Well, if he does need to escape, I’ve heard rumors of a very private and secluded block of rooms on the south side of the building. Third floor. But remember,” he wags a parental finger at her, “safety first.”

 

 

Phase two of the game starts the next time Vision rejoins her at the bar and Wanda acts as if the music is too loud to hear him, and so she pulls his face close to hers, encouraging him to whisper in her ear. This leads to the minor reward of him wrapping an arm around her waist to make this style of conversation more comfortable. “Have you ever danced, Vizh?” Instead of speaking he shakes his head and watches the semi-synchronized movements of the people on the floor. “Do you want to?”

“I am afraid I do not know how,” his eyes focus on one couple and follows them as they move, “though it does not appear to be terribly difficult.”

Wanda reaches down and grabs the hand he is resting on her waist, with (what she hopes) is a seductive turn she begins pulling him not towards the dance floor, but through the doors leading to the extra rooms of the building. “We can practice a bit before going out there.” She can sense hesitation in his steps but continues walking, fearful that she’ll agree to go back if she stops long enough to check on him. Once they reach the south side of the building Wanda reaches her powers out, all but one of the rooms is currently occupied and so she directs them to the one free room, excitedly opening the door and shutting it behind them.

“Wanda,” now that she has him sequestered, Wanda makes eye contact, feeling a brief burst of guilt at the worry scrunching his brow down, “Ms. Potts emphasized the importance of not leaving for more than fifteen minutes.”

“Then we’ll be here for twelve and have time to make it back.” The logic seems to work for him as she feels the tension leave his shoulders. “Okay, so, danc-” her words freeze, teetering on the tip of her tongue as his left arm snakes around her waist, holding her delicately and yet firm enough that she could conceivably lean back and not fall over. His right hand travels down, cupping her own hand and bringing their arms out to the side.

“Is this correct?”

“Um,” Wanda checks his hand placement, nodding her head, “yeah, this is good. Though you can hold me a bit closer, if you want.” Forever the teacher’s pet, his arm tightens around her waist so that their chests are touching and all he has to do, when she meets his eyes, is lean his head down and they’d be in a perfect position to kiss. “Okay, so now you lead and I’ll follow.” Hesitantly he takes the first step, swaying to the right until her foot follows and then he steps back and she steps forward, to the left and her to the right,and then he moves into her and she steps back. “There we go, the square is a good place to start.”

A bashful smile meets her words and his arm catches her as she dips slightly due to her knees becoming jello under his stare. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah, sorry, these stupid shoes. We can keep going.”

Vision takes her through the square again, each time their movements more fluid and bodies relaxing into each other. Whether it is simply concentration or if the music is getting louder, the waltz currently being played at the ball drifts through the walls and their bodies sway to the rhythm, Vision taking them in broader sweeps around the room. “May I twirl you?” A smile is all she gives him before he lets go of her waist and pushes her out from his body, pulling her back to him once she is far enough out that both his arm and hers are fully extended. Despite their graceful steps so far, she finds her body crashing into his and their laughter intermingles as she rests her forehead to his chest and his arms wrap around her body. “Perhaps my calculations were wrong.”

“How about,” her hand travels to his face, cupping his cheek, “you stop calculating and just go with whatever feels best?” New strategy in mind, they return to their nearly perfect stepping, allowing the momentum of their dancing to pull them along the floor, this time when he sends her out with his arm and he pulls her back Wanda finds that the spin is not fast enough and she stops almost a foot away from him. “We suck at this.”

And so they try again and again, each time either coming up short or both of them almost tumbling to the ground, by the last time Vision’s chest shakes so hard with laughter that he doesn’t even try to pull her back. “I believe,” the way his voice cracks while he attempts to control the outbursts reignites the fire in Wanda’s chest, unsure if she has ever seen him so disarmed, open, and damn sexy, “admitting defeat is best right now, as our twelve minutes are over.”

Panic overtakes her passion and Wanda desperately grasps at strategies to keep them here, in this room, with his laughter and the softness of his carefree eyes. “I’m sure Pepper wouldn’t notice if we were gone longer.”

“Truthfully I would much prefer to stay here,” as the words leave his mouth, each one works as a rope tugging her closer until her hands come to rest on his chest, fingers playing with the silk lapels of the tuxedo. When his hand raises to brush back a strand of her hair, Wanda bites her lower lip, “but Ms. Potts was quite adamant about our attendance. We can join the others in dancing.”

Wanda sighs, defeated and morose over the lost opportunity. “Fine,” and then it dawns on her what she can try, it won’t quench her thirst but perhaps it can awaken his own. With a step back she grabs his hand and curtsies, before meeting his eyes, “Thank you for the dance.” Slowly she brings her lips to his hand, thrilled at the startled flex in his fingers and the cool, faintly metallic taste of his skin. With some reluctance she pulls away and grins at his quickly rotating, wide eyes. “Come on, we should get back.” Wanda walks to the door but discovers that she is alone, and so she turns to find him still frozen and inspecting his hand. “You coming?”

“Oh, yes, sorry.” His fingers intertwine with her own as they make their way back, a smile growing on her face each time she catches him glancing at her in curiosity. The game may not be won tonight, but Wanda is fairly certain she is no longer playing alone. 


	7. The Bet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team attempts to figure out what exactly is going on between Wanda and Vision.

“Seriously, do I have to draw this out for you?” The exasperation in Sam’s typically calm voice seems to surprise the three other people sitting around the conference table, all called there for an impromptu meeting. “Screw it, I'm drawing it. Not sure how you all don't see it.” He reaches for the intercom unit on the table and pushes the button. “Vision.” 

“Yes Sam.” The response comes slower than expected and Vision sounds out of breath, which is strange for a man who doesn't need to breathe, a point Sam attempts to emphasize to the others by gesturing at the intercom. 

“Could I borrow your white board?”

“Of course, when do you need it?”

“Right now would be awesome.”

There is a hesitant pause before the intercom clicks to indicate a response, “I will be right down with it.”

Silence permeates the room as they wait several minutes before the unmistakable swivel of wheels echoes down the hall. Sam gets up to open the door and welcomes Vision into the room. “Thanks, man.”

“Of course,” Vision glances around the table, eyes falling on each face as confusion sets his mouth into a frown. “What are you meeting about?”

Surprisingly Steve offers the lie, “Covert mission, you and Wanda won't be on this one so we figured you could skip the strategy meeting.” 

Understanding replaces the confusion and the tenseness in the room evaporates when Vision nods his head. “Thank you, Captain Rogers. How long do you think this meeting will last?” 

“Oh I don't know, thirty, forty minutes?”

With a bow of his head Vision phases through the wall and Sam immediately moves the board to the front of the room, beginning to  map out the evidence from as early as the first week at the compound. After ten minutes and many interjections and suggestions from Natasha, the board is covered in an intricate web of headings (such as “couch cuddling” “hand holding on the quinjet ” “bad flirting” “ignoring teammates during training” “orbits”). “So I think this is pretty clear, especially if we just add in..:,” Sam writes in Charity Ball with subsections for staring longingly and dancing too close. 

Rhodes shrugs, crossing his arms for added indifference when he responds, “This also could just mean really good friends.” 

“I think they would have told us if something was going on. We're making too much out of this.” The tone of Steve’s voice indicates the conversation is done and over, tied up neatly with a bow of denial. 

“Fine,” with an annoyed air Natasha pushes her chair from the table and walks to the board, flipping it over before grabbing the marker from Sam. “How about this.” In big, block letters she writes  **The Bet** . “First person to provide either a picture or a video with unmistakable proof of their relationship wins.” The dry erase marker squeaks as Natasha outlines the rules of the bet, Sam nodding along with each new item which is in stark contrast to the disbelief and discomfort growing on Steve’s face. “Okay,” Natasha turns back to the room, “so due to the already affectionate baseline between the two of them there have to be parameters for evidence. Things that don’t count: cuddling, hand holding, hugging, or Wanda kissing his cheek. Things that do count: Vision kissing her in any way, making out, if either identifies their relationship, and of course, if they’re having sex.”

Rhodes chokes on his water, eyes widening and hands waving in front of him to exorcise the images from his brain. “I’m out if that is what I have to see.”

A flippant sigh and lean back in the chair proceeds Steve’s next comment, “Guys, stop this. I’ll just go and ask them.”

“No,” Sam grabs the marker back and adds to the rules, underlining  _ No Directly Asking _ multiple times, “where’s the fun in that, Steve? I’m willing to throw in twenty bucks.” The nods from Natasha and Rhodes leads to a sixty dollar pot and they all turn to Steve, an unspoken requirement that their leader okay the mission. 

“Fine, but because I’m sure nothing is going on, I’ll  even add in a day off training to the winner.” 

  
  


Sam leaves the conference room with a smile on his face and a new purpose driving his feet, sure that he can win the bet before bed. Based on intel from Clint, his entire strategy revolves around the element of surprise. He pulls out his phone and studies the room reservation calendar (a necessary evil after there was almost a war over who got to use the main tv several nights in a row), devilish grin sprawling across his lips when he locates Wanda’s name with the common room. Sam approaches from the hallway, smile growing when he hears Wanda laughing, and he cautiously peeks around the corner, assessing all points of entry and confirming no suspicious shadows.

The only signs of life are on the couch and, unless he's hallucinating, he's pretty certain the sweatshirt draped on the back of the couch belongs to Wanda and that the distinctly bald and shiny top of Vision’s head is just barely in his sight line. Due to its placement, Vision appears to be laying down on his stomach, which means Wanda can only be in one place. As he creeps forward, phone at the ready, Sam grins again, already planning how to use his day off which is going to be spent outside of the compound, far away from everyone. With an unnecessary stealth roll he makes it behind the couch, the movement of the cushions much more distinctive this close. He breathes in and out several times, hand gripping the phone before he jumps up and takes a picture. “Surprise!!”

“Oh, hi Sam.” There is no shock or fear or anything to her voice and there is also a noticeable absence of Vision. Instead it’s just Wanda, lounging on the couch, book in hand, a suspiciously innocent gleam to her eyes. Sam finds that he can't speak, mouth hanging open and flapping as if he was a fish that thought evolution had given him lungs only to find himself dying on the beach. But he knows what he saw, there was no ambiguity in the implications, and so he studies her, ignoring the friendly smile and instead focusing on other signs. Wanda's typically smooth hair is mussed, one side slightly flat and the other tangled. Her breath is slowing down but still quicker than normal and there is a fading blush on her cheeks. “Can I help you?”

“Um, yeah, just looking for Vision to let him know we're done with his board.”

“Thank you, Sam.” The voice startles Sam, his body involuntarily jumping away from the couch as Vision appears from the darkness of the kitchen, popcorn bowl in hand. “Would you like to join us for a movie?”

Sam moves his gaze between his two teammates, their matching friendly smiles and innocent eyes unnerving. “No, I think I'm good. You all have a good night.”  Before he exits the room he examines the pair once more, Wanda leaning her chest against the back of the couch so she can talk to Vision, her hands smoothing his slightly wrinkled sweater. Sam's eyes narrow and the corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk, these two are good. 

  
  
  


Despite her status as one of the most elite and dangerous spies in the world, Natasha finds herself growing frustrated. It's been almost a week since they started the bet and yet every time she makes her move she comes up empty handed. After several surprise attacks (three of which were hindered by Sam also sneaking around), multiple interrogations including a quiet and carefully worded afternoon with Vision, and tailing them on their weekly coffee date, she’s beginning to doubt the veracity of their relationship. 

There is, however, one location she's avoided, aware that Steve cautioned against full invasion of privacy. But Natasha has never failed a mission and desperation beckons her towards the living quarters. Based on observations and reconnaissance, Wanda and Vision spend every Wednesday night at 8pm in Wanda's room. It's actually quite adorable, frustrations aside, at how they've scheduled in both order and spontaneity, the time and location often set and then their activity determined on a whim.

Natasha rotates her wrist, confirming it to be a quarter past eight, which should have been plenty of time for them to entangle. In case Steve asks for justifications of her actions, Natasha delicately taps the pad of her index finger against the door. When no one responds to her “knocking” she checks the hallway one last time before overriding the lock on the door, a soft swish meeting her ear as the room opens.

Surprisingly neither one notices and Natasha hesitates, guilt building as she takes in the not salacious (unfortunately) but still oddly intimate scene. Wanda is freshly showered, wet hair slung to one side, face completely bare, and wearing running shorts and a t-shirt. It's the most casual and youthful she's ever appeared. She's relaxed in an armchair, book held level at her chest as she reads out loud to Vision, who is sitting opposite her in the desk chair, Wanda's feet in his lap and his hands preoccupied painting her toe nails. 

“Vizh, you're going to love this next line.”

A gentle tilt of his head reveals a reverential gaze, eyes brimming with so much pure devotion that Natasha finds herself stepping away from the room with an uncomfortable ache constricting her chest. She'll just have to catch them another time. 

  
  
  


Vision stands in the kitchen, apron (reading “Holy shiitake!”) tied snug around his waist and one hand nervously prodding at the French toast with tongs. Shaking off some slight  feelings of voyeurism, Rhodes studies the synthetic man, something he's never really done before. Clearly he's interacted with him, they train together every day and have gone on missions together, but whether fair or not, Vision has always been categorized in his mind as some unearthly other that will never be understood. But, since the inception of the bet, Rhodes has attempted to exert extra effort in parsing out the man's actions and thoughts. Much to his surprise he finds Vision a bit sassy with a dry humor that entertainingly goes over Steve's head more often than not, but is said with such posh seriousness that it's hard to know for sure if he is joking. He also lights up when Wanda is around and, a bit begrudgingly, Rhodes has come to agree with Sam and Natasha that something is going on between the two. 

Hence why he keeps lingering longer at the table, drinking his coffee slower, taking his time reading the news, and eating more breakfast just so he can observe their interactions (without other teammates ruining it). He tells himself that he is not actively trying to win the bet, but if Wanda’s lackadaisical mood in the morning leads to her guard being down and initiating anything with Vision then so be it. Right on time (give or take twenty minutes) Wanda wanders into the kitchen, “Morning Rhodes.”

“Good morning, how'd you sleep?”

There is a noticeable difference in her this morning, a smile forming much too freely on her face and a reminiscent glaze over her eyes as they slide towards the man in the kitchen. “Oh I barely slept.” The words are laced with subtext and Rhodes finds his eyebrows raising in surprise. Interest piqued, Rhodes sits casually with his phone up, attempting the appearance of reading the news, all while watching her walk towards the kitchen. 

Wanda cozies up to Vision almost immediately, hand touching him between his shoulder blades and making loose circles. “Hey Vizh.”

“Good morning, Wanda.”

A giggle flies from her lips which makes it only the first time Rhodes has heard that sound from her. Vision responds with a smirk and a subtle lean towards her that brings their faces dangerously close. Rhodes clicks the camera icon, ready for his day off. But then he freezes unable to push the button, watching in horrified fascination as her hand travels down Vision’s back, and then, just as quickly as it came, the opportunity is gone. 

His fingers tap urgently on the screen. 

Rhodes:  _ So W just grabbed V’s ass. Does that count? _

Sam:  _ Pics or it didn't happen. _

Rhodes:  _ Does the picture seared into my brain count? _

“Everything okay there?”  Wanda's voice pulls him from the message and he's surprised to find both of them sitting across the table from him. 

Though he feels slightly guilty about it, Rhodes hits record on his phone before putting it in his pocket. “Uh, yeah. So why'd you not sleep last night?”

A shrug of her shoulders and a flick of her fork against the toast makes the next words seem far more casual than they should be, “We went stargazing and then had a really hot makeout session.” Rhodes chokes on his coffee, unsure if he should bleach his mind of the visual or celebrate clinching the win. 

“Why do you seem excited?” Vision stares at him with interest. 

“Oh, I just remembered we have that big run today, you know I love those things.”

Vision hums across from him, fingers delicate as they lift to emphasize his next words. “Physical exertion does increase overall arousal and mood.” His hand returns to the table as he finishes his thought, “Though I assumed it was because you believe you have just won the bet.”

Heat rushes to Rhodes’ face and his eyes dart in search of an escape route. This is not how it was supposed to go. “I um,” he finds that he can't even look them in the face, which he knows only confirms the existence of the bet, and so he finds himself in full denial, “not sure what you're talking about.”

“You forgot to erase the other side of my whiteboard.”

Well, at least now he can blame Sam. “Rhodes,” Wanda's command draws his gaze up and the predatory smile gracing her lips terrifies him even more than the idea of her reading his thoughts right now. “We want in on it.”

“Wait, what?”

The nonchalance of Vision’s sigh reminds him a bit of Tony, who would probably be so proud of his manipulative son right now. “We are willing to work with you so that you get the money and we get the day off.” 

Before their conversation can continue the alarm sounds through the compound, Friday's gentle voice informing them to suit up and be in the hangar in five minutes. They all nod at each other, an understanding that this conversation isn't over, and separate. As he makes his way to the armory he checks his phone and finds that it stopped recording three seconds after he started it. 

  
  
  


Currently Steve finds himself punching a hole into the chest of one robot while kicking another and his shield should be returning any second now. For some reason it seems as if robots are the henchman  _ du jour _ for villains these days, or at least the last five emergency calls deal with them. There are some pros, he figures, fingers shaking wires away, in that he doesn't have to feel bad about destroying them. But the big con is that they just don’t stop. As yet another swarm approaches him, he raises a hand to his ear, “Maximoff, Vision, why is it taking you two so long?” Given that most people who use robots have a centralized command center means Wanda and Vision, thanks to their unique powers, have taken on the shut-it-down role on these missions. 

“Captain,” there is an unusual pause in the response before Vision continues, “we are almost done, this one is a bit more complex.” 

“No excuses, just shut it down.”

Ten monotonous minutes tick by of punch-smash-kick-throw-repeat and Steve is about to ask again when the ground shakes and a large plume of red rises from the direction of the command center, all of the robots falling down. “Maximoff?” No response, Natasha joins him, concern marring her forehead. “Vision?” As the silence elongates, Sam and Rhodes arrive and they all stare at each other until Steve nods and they run in the direction of the blast. 

The devastation left is impressive, metal walls and shards of glass, intermixed with deactived robots littering the ground.  Steve tries to contact them again, “Maximoff. Vision. Report.” Natasha fans out and begins sifting through the rubble, quickly joined by Sam, and Rhodes takes to the air. 

“Steve, found them, just about fifty feet to your right.”

Vision is hunched over, hands held to his head and irises rotating so quickly it is making Steve dizzy to watch. Several feet from him Wanda lays on the ground, a small red dome encasing her body but she hasn't moved. Cautiously Steve approaches Vision, reaching out a hand to touch his shoulder and concern floods his veins when the usually stoic and unflappable man flinches from his touch, eyes wild for several seconds before slowing down. “Captain Rogers.”

“You okay?” 

Almost immediately Vision’s attention is diverted, Steve’s question left unanswered as he crawls to where Wanda is sprawled, arms reaching into the dome and cradling her body to his chest. No one dares talk, all attention focused on the way his hands nervously run along her arms and face, her name falling as a whispered prayer from his lips. “Vizh?” One syllable and there is a collective exhale from the team. 

“Wanda, are you hurt?” She shakes her head and attempts to sit up but his arms tighten around her. “I told you not to sever the red wire and cross it with the magenta one.”

“Oh shut up.” 

Steve realizes then that he has never truly seen Vision smile until now and it is clear that no one but the two of them exist at the moment. Without hesitation, and the implication clear that this is not a first time thing, Vision lifts her in his arms and kisses her, Wanda responding quite enthusiastically, wrapping her arms around his neck to pull him closer. 

There is a click and a flash of light, the others turning to glare at him. “What?” Steve shrugs as he puts his phone away, he could use a day off as well.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, hope you enjoyed!!


	8. Holiday Traditions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vision finds himself confused by the traditions of the season.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!!

Vision is standing 14.5 feet away in the kitchen stirring a pot of hot chocolate as Natasha effortlessly directs the team on where to place lights and wrap ribbon around the branches of an exquisite  _ thuja occidentalis  _ specimen. This all started, supposedly, with the Vikings as a way to celebrate their god Baldur and then Germany adopted the use of such trees into Christmas celebrations, which clearly stuck. Though he understands the historical context, the development from history to tradition (especially ones involving killing trees) confounds him. Which makes the past week, and undoubtedly the weeks to come, feel as if he is walking through a haze of irrational human behavior. 

But, adding layers of normative complexity, it is not just the tree that makes a tradition, by his estimates there are at least three separate traditions that center on this one tree. Last year he thought he was being helpful by cutting down the tree with a beam from the Mind Stone, only to later find out from Natasha that that honor belongs to Steve. Tradition 1: Steve chops down the tree. This year he graciously stepped aside and watched as the tree fell after only two swings of the axe and many cheers from the others. Tradition 2: Team decorating. His need for symmetry means that he volunteers to make the hot chocolate instead of fixing their askew garland and unevenly placed lights. 

“You're doing it again.”

A hand pries his fist from the whisk and interlaces its fingers with his own as he turns his thoughts away from the tree and to the smiling face next to him. “Doing what?”

“Thinking about how weird we are.” Vision opens his mouth to respond but decides that he is not sure if he should comply by saying yes or be polite and deny her words. With an exaggerated eye roll, Wanda pulls him closer, snuggling her shoulder into his side and leaning her head back onto his chest. “You always look both terrified and concerned when you try and figure everyone out. So what’s it this time?” 

The honest curiosity and gentle, playful joy in her voice pulls his lips up into a grin, a seemingly more common and more automatic reaction the more time they spend together.  “Did your family have a tree like this?”

“Ah, traditions again,” Wanda nudges him with her hip, “no, we didn’t have a tree.” 

A commotion near the tree draws their attention as Rhodes walks in with a box and Sam immediately starts opening it before it is on the ground. “Yo, lovebirds, get over here.” Wanda squeezes his hand before pulling him with her towards their teammates. “Alright,” Sam’s hands dig through the contents of the box until he pulls out a Santa hat, proudly placing it on his head before reaching back into the box. “Let’s see, Natasha.” A fuzzy, Vision would argue garish, spider ornament is passed into her hands. “Steve,” a glittered American flag. “Natasha again,” a sequined gun with a silk  _ Bang! _ ribbon drooping from the end. 

Tradition 3: Team ornaments. Each year they all draw names and have to buy the most obnoxious, yet meaningful ornament for the teammate on their slip of paper. Based on his questioning last year, none of them are certain who started the tradition or why they do it, but it has persisted and become a point of pride to find the most outlandish ornament of the year. “Vision,” a 6 inch box is hovering in front of him and Vision takes it from Sam, fingers gently prying open the tabs until he removes his one ornament, a gift from Tony last year. It is a crystal rocking horse, a gold teddy bear riding on its back and a gold plate at the bottom of the horse that reads  _ Baby’s First Christmas, 2015 _ . 

“Come on,” Wanda pulls him, yet again, from his thoughts, and he follows her, watching as she holds her light-up witch’s hat ornament up to the tree, assessing the best spot for it. “How about here?” 

He studies the placement, noting there are few other ornaments around (clear disregard for the ideal ornament to tree ratio), and nods. “This seems promising.”  Carefully he wraps the string from his rocking horse around a branch, adjusting the top of it a bit so that the ornament hangs level, and smiles as Wanda places her witch’s hat three inches to the right. 

  
  
  


Despite his constant questioning, Vision has been unable to discover any traditions from Wanda’s life.  There is, however, one tradition that she recently decided to enthusiastically follow. Much to Steve’s chagrin, Natasha and Wanda spent an afternoon pinning sprigs of mistletoe to every single doorway in the compound. The only warning the team got was an ominous message over the comms stating “Be careful who you walk with.”  

The first victims of the tradition are Sam and Steve, who both attempt to part ways only to be blocked by walls of red and chants of “Kiss Kiss Kiss.” Sam holds his hands up, boyish grin reassuring everyone that he is a good sport before he pecks Steve’s extremely red cheek. After that Vision discovers a new hobby in watching everyone shuffle around, walking one by one through any opening into a room. Rhodes even carries a bag of chocolate kisses just in case he meets anyone, which leads to Sam following him around the compound until he runs out. 

Luckily for Vision, he just uses the walls. Currently he is on his way to the common room, where they are all supposed to be meeting to shoot their Christmas card picture. A hand held to his chest stops him halfway through the final wall and Vision glances down in confusion, taking in the chipped black polish and myriad rings. In the background he can hear Tony’s questioning voice (“Why is it on the walls though?”) but the mischievous gleam in Wanda's eyes narrows his focus to just the pressure of her fingers on his body. “Look up.” He does. 

“Oh.” 

Roughly three feet above his head there is mistletoe taped to the wall. Before he can comment further she wraps an arm around his neck, encouraging him to lean down, chastely pressing her lips to his but still lingering just a second long enough to make him wish they were not surrounded by teammates. “Don’t worry,” she pats his chest reassuringly, “I made sure all your favorite walls are covered.” A sultry wink precedes her next statement, “Swing by my room later, any wall will do.”  

  
  
  
  


“Hey Vizh.” 

Vision peers up from his book, first at the clock to confirm it is one in the morning, and then towards Wanda, who appears to be ready to go outside, dressed head to toe in winter gear. “Hello Wanda, where are you going?”

“Well,” she falls next to him on the couch, arms spread out wider than usual likely due to the sheer amount of layers she is wearing, “you’ve been bugging me so much about traditions, that I thought I could show you something Pietro and I use to do during the holidays.”

“At one in the morning?”

A shy smile flirts with her lips as she attempts to shrug through her layers. “That’s actually part of the tradition. You in or not?” Vision stands up and reaches down to lift Wanda to her feet. Assuming that they are going outside he, for appearance sake only, creates a coat and hat. “I take this as a yes?”

“Correct.”

“Great.” 

It isn’t until they reach the back of the compound that Vision has any idea of what is to come as Wanda enters a closet and comes out pulling a toboggan. “Want to help me with this?” They leave the compound and trudge through the thick snow, a full moon in the sky illuminating their path and Vision realizes how beautiful it is at night. The frigid air makes the stars twinkle more than usual, the gentle creaking of frozen tree branches clinking in the breeze serenading them as they make their way up a large hill behind the compound. “Alright, we can stop here.” Vision places the toboggan down in the snow, watching as Wanda puts her foot on it to hold it still while she lowers herself onto it. “Pietro and I used to sneak out during the full moon each year to go sledding, our parents never knew, I think.”

Concern blossoms in his chest as he stares at Wanda sitting on the sled, feet flat against the curled portion of the front and knees bent. “Wanda I fear this is not safe.” 

“Vizh, you can change density and fly, we’ll be fine, now come and sit down.” Hesitation slows his movements, mind searching for information on how one is supposed to sit on such a contraption. Eventually he sits towards the back, feet still in the snow, unsure where they should go. “Give me your feet.” Haltingly he lifts them up so that a foot is on either side of her and then she grabs them, yanking on his ankles until he scoots forward far enough for her back to be pressed into his chest, his legs wrapped around her waist. He feels ridiculous. But she doesn’t give him any time to protest, a flick of the wrist and a red wisp sending the sled careening down the hill. From the top of the hill it didn’t seem to be steep, but the speed they are gathering is impressive and terrifying, the sled gaining some air as they hit a small snow drift. And then they are at the bottom, Wanda cackling in joy as she falls to the side into the snow.

Vision simply stands, curiosity curling its way through his mind as he takes in the sight of Wanda in the snow. “That was,” multiple words rotate through his mouth before he picks the one that best describes the jumble of emotions “fun. Would you like to go again?”

“Are you the sexiest synthezoid in existence?” 

Luckily he cannot blush, and so he simply smiles in return as he picks up the toboggan and Wanda, flying them to the top. They both sit and go again. The result is the same, even the slight air time and yet, Vision finds he wants to go down the hill again. By the fourth time he even flops to the side to get off the sled, exuberant at the way the snow rises and cakes his face like a soft, chilly hug. “Okay,” Wanda holds out a hand to stop him from sitting down on the sled the next time they reach the top, “this time we should spice it up a bit.”

“How do you propose we do that?”

The devious smirk on her face should worry him, but instead it entices him, adrenaline rushing through his veins. “Sit down.” He willingly complies, allowing her to push him along the toboggan until his feet touch the front. Then, quite unexpectedly, she sits on his lap, legs and arms wrapping around his body while bringing her mouth mere centimeters from his. “You’ll be in charge of steering this time, I’m going to be a bit preoccupied.” And the plan is clear when she captures his lips, arms tightening around his shoulders as their mouths move against each other. 

Vision has no intention of moving the sled, deciding that safety can be just as sensuous as adventure, but then Wanda flicks her wrist. “Wanda…” the warning is muffled by her mouth and terror rears up as they fly down the hill, his hands torn between controlling the sled and the desire to run them along her back. It is the damn snow drift that ruins it, his attention diverted enough that they hit it wrong and the sled flips over, sending them tumbling into the snow.  “Wanda, are you okay?”

“Ha!” He follows the sound of her voice until he locates her in a snowbank, beaming up at him from a Wanda shaped hole in the snow. “That was awesome.” Relief sags his body to the ground, knees digging into the snow next to her. “You can change your body temperature, right? Become my own personal heater?”

“I can, why?”

Mittened hands reach out of the indent in the snow, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him on top of her. This is a tradition he thinks he can get behind, but for now he simply enjoys the way her teeth graze his lips and how her laughter echoes through the leafless trees whenever he kisses her neck with his warmer than normal mouth.

  
  
  


The single most important tradition that he has learned in his brief life is that of gift giving, which, to be fair, is a tradition for other occassions as well. Last year he did not purchase any gifts because Captain Rogers clearly stated that they were not to do so. Which, he later found out, means that everyone staunchly agrees that gifts are superfluous but then buys gifts anyway. Hence the illogic of traditions. But this year, despite the same proclamation, Vision is ready, having bought at least one gift per teammate. Most importantly, and nerve wracking, was shopping for Wanda. Though he has several items for her, there is one in particular that he has been anxious to present to her. 

Vision waits until the others have retired for the night before grabbing the gift from his room and gliding down the hall to Wanda’s door. He begins to adjust his density to phase through the wall until remembering that Wanda was very clear on him knocking tonight. A bit fearfully he raps his knuckles against the door, nerves budding throughout his body with every millisecond that goes by. Eight seconds later the door opens and he is greeted by Wanda's broad smile. “Hey! Good timing, just finished wrapping your gifts.” Her finger points down at his hands, smile sliding playfully to the side. “Is that for me?” 

“Oh, yes,” his arms lift to hold the pristinely wrapped box out to her, “I wanted to give you this present.”

“Christmas is tomorrow, you know.”

“I know, I just,” the real explanation would be more accepted, but then the surprise of the gift is ruined, “wished to present you with a gift separate from the rest.” A three-quarters truth will have to do. Wide smile still in place, she steps back, arm sweeping across her body to welcome him into her room. Vision watches as she crawls under the covers and pats the space next to her, an invitation he gladly accepts before placing the box in her lap. “It was my desire to give this to you before tomorrow, for reasons I can explain later, if you wish.”

His eyes follow as her fingers run along the edges of the picture-perfect silver bow. “You’re being rather cryptic right now, I’m a bit worried.” Red tendrils fly in and out of the bow, untying it with ease before bringing the ribbon to lay in his lap, where his fingers fiddle with it, easing his fast-rising tensions. Vision briefly wonders if she is purposely taking a long time to unwrap the gift, but shakes the thoughts from his head, aware that temporal perceptions can be skewed by emotions, and right now his are quite high. Once the blue wrapping paper is gone, thrown as a bunched up ball on the floor, Wanda uses her powers to cut through the tape, hands opening the box flaps and then freezing. 

“Vizh…” the plan for this gift had been in his mind for several months, many painstaking hours of research and contacting vendors in order to find the most perfect version. In all that time he never once thought this would be her reaction. Wanda glances between him and the box, water welling in her eyes and her mouth hanging partially opened in what may be disbelief or could be horror. One more look down at the box and a sob breaks from her lips, hand flying up to cover her mouth before her shoulders shake from the force of her crying. Spots form on the box, as torrential tears rain down, and all Vision can do is sit and watch, aghast at his clear misstep in gift giving, never intending to hurt Wanda in this way. 

Carefully he reaches out to touch her shoulder, and she turns and throws her arms around him, crawling into his lap until their bodies are flush, her head on his shoulder. Vision wraps himself around her, one hand rubbing soothing circles on her back and the other tangling into her hair, gently massaging her scalp. “I am sorry, I did not intend for this.”

She shakes her head, another sob wracking her body, causing her to cling more tightly to him. Several minutes go by before her breathing becomes more regular and her body begins to relax. With apparent reluctance, her grip on him loosens just enough for her to lean back, allowing their faces to be even. Vision untangles his hand from her hair and moves it to her cheek, lifting a line of tears from her face. A blessed smile forms on her mouth as she leans her forehead against his, and whispers,  “I love it, Vision.” The words precede the pressure of her lips against his own, a kiss equal parts affection and comfort that consumes him in a wave of relief. 

Eventually she pulls away, excitement intermingling with the remnants of tears as she slides from his lap and opens the gift once more. Gingerly she lifts the simple silver menorah from the box, tracing her fingers along the smooth surface of each arm. “How did you know?”

“You dreamt of it last year, one night after a nightmare when you were still linked to my mind,” the look that crosses her face befuddles him, unsure if she is impressed, upset, happy, or simply interested in hearing more. “I did not think much on it at the time, but then I realized that you never spoke of Christmas traditions, and I began to understand that it was because you never celebrated it. Correct?”

“Yeah,” Wanda wipes a new tear from her face as she cradles the menorah in her hands.  “My mother loved Hanukkah, though my father said there were far more important holidays in the Jewish calendar, but he still indulged her every whim.” One arm holds the gift securely in place while the other reaches into the box, pulling out the bundle of white candles. She delicately inserts each one as she talks. “To be honest, Vizh, Pietro and I stopped celebrating soon after, well, you know. We tried for a few years but could never quite muster the energy, I,” he watches as she stands from the bed and brings the menorah to rest on her desk, “I don’t know if I remember how to, I don’t even know when it is.” 

“It begins tonight, actually.” Vision joins her at the table, wrapping an arm around her waist as she rearranges the candles, turning each until they all are at the same angle and height. “As for how to celebrate, well I have never done so and will blindly follow your lead.”

Once her hands still, they both admire the menorah before she rifles through the desk drawer for a match. “I think, if I remember correctly, there is a blessing that needs to be said while we light the candle.” Vision allows her quiet to attempt to remember the words, anxiety growing when fresh tears brim from her lachrymose glands. “My father always said them, I can’t remember.” 

“I can look them up and say them, if you wish.” The smile that greets his words is more than enough to convey her gratitude and he quickly finds the blessings for the candles. “I am ready when you are.”

“Okay,” one swift motion lights the match and Wanda brings it to the wick of the center candle. A sudden revelation leads to a sigh escaping her lips as she removes all the candles but the center, lit one and the one on the farthest right side of the menorah. “Okay, ready this time. Go for it.” 

Vision begins to recite the blessing, his tongue fumbling over the words, unused to the gutturals of Hebrew, but Wanda simply smiles, lifting the candle in her hand. Much to his surprise, she grabs his hand with her free one and brings it to the candle as well, laying it over hers as they move towards the unlit candle. Once the blessings are complete, she pulls their hands down and they light the candle, placing the center candle back in its holder. She turns to face him, snaking her arms around his neck, grin growing wider with each second. “You do know what you just did, right?”

“Lit a candle?”

Her laughter, he decides, is simply one of the most melodic and beautiful sounds in existence. “No, you just started a tradition of our own.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll do my best to get at least one more thing out before leaving to visit my family for a week! Whether it is the shorter or longer story I have planned, expect some steam ;)


	9. Sing Me a Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda discovers that Vision refuses to sing.

Buying the guitar had been done on a whim, influenced by a brief nostalgic moment of the image of her father strumming in the background as her mother sang and danced with Pietro, hand stretching towards Wanda so she could join. What she didn't anticipate was her lack of natural skill for it, naively assuming she'd inherited some musical talent. Finally, after many many months of practice she can play the song her father loved, a gentle, slow, meandering melody. With a quick glance, nothing more as she still needs to look at the strings to keep her fingers properly bent, she smirks at the swaying of Vision’s hand as it hangs over the arm of the chair he is reading in. “I know you know the words.”

Brilliant blue eyes swirl as they bore into her own and she finds the tune halting with her lapse in concentration. “I do.”

“Then why don't you sing them, I can't play and sing at the same time.”

He opens his mouth to respond and the uncertainty of his thoughts is clear in the tremble of hesitation on his lips and the exaggerated flourish of his hand in explanation. “I am quite fond of the instrumentals, I do not wish to,” forgetting words is the surest sign that he is omitting some part of his thoughts, “sully the beauty of the song.”

“Right. What's the real reason?”

The way guilt manifests on his face (which, thankfully is not often) involves a brief glance down as his lips form a tight line, fingers bending a fraction inward to make a lazy fist. “I simply do not want to sing.”  And for the moment she drops it, continuing the song from where she last left off, every so often shifting her eyes to the side and watching as he relaxes again, hand following the beat.

  


Wanda doesn't think about it again until the next game night. The teams are randomly assigned, Vision, Natasha, and Rhodes on one side and Steve, Sam, and Wanda on the other. The game is chosen by Rhodes (since his birthday is the next one up) and it involves each team completing different types of challenges based on overarching categories. Some require drawing, others involve trivia and facts (a boon for Vision’s team), there is play-doh involved but, most of interest to Wanda is a card that requires someone to hum a song for the others to guess. Each and every time it comes up for the opposing team, Wanda watches in impressed fascination as Vision subtly directs one of his teammates to take the burden of humming. He achieves it with logical arguments, carefully fine tuned to compliment his teammates, and through volunteering to draw or sculpt for the other cards so he has the reasoning of just completing a task and not wishing to 'hog all of the fun'.

Frustratingly his team reaches the final steps first, requiring the other team to choose a card for them to complete. Though Steve and Sam discuss a backwards spelling task meant for Natasha, Wanda overrides them, grabbing a green card and shoving it into Vision’s hand. “We choose this one.”

Vision studies the card, purposely not flipping it over to look at the answer (which would guarantee he be the one to hum) and then he turns to his team. “Rhodes, they have selected a humdinger again. Based on statistics from tonight’s game we have correctly guessed the song each time you have hummed.”

“Alright then, let me see it,” as Rhodes grabs the card, studying the answer with a cocky smirk on his face, all Wanda can accomplish is a narrowing of her eyes towards the annoyingly innocent shrug that Vision gives her.  

  


What Wanda doesn't understand is why he won't sing, or hum, or even whistle. Vision appreciates music, often entering into long conversations with Sam over up-and-coming artists and spending his long nights sampling from the vast array of styles (which he then plays for her throughout the week). Yet he refuses to even mumble along to Happy Birthday.

The jazz music drifting down the hall only serves to increase her annoyance, though she isn’t sure why it bothers her so much, but she resolves to get to the bottom of it tonight. So Wanda walks with purpose, hands gripped into fists at her side and head held high in confidence, ready to confront him about this oddity. And then, well, she stops, eyes following as his body flits around the kitchen, curious at the way his hands grab utensils, stirring the pot in time to the music. A smile grows on her face as a blanket of adoration wraps around her shoulders, aware that he has no knowledge of her presence which is likely why he feels comfortable enough to close a drawer with a bump of his hip. It's not until he completes a half spin towards the sink that he sees her, movements crashing to a halt as his body resumes a civilized and poised posture.

“Wanda.”

“Nice moves there.”

Though he is still experimenting with various types of social smiles (including a surprisingly lengthy presentation he prepared for her to confirm his observations and interpretations), the one on his face currently, a self-aware bashfulness in the arc of his lips as one side lifts higher than the other, has reached perfection. Not only is he good at utilizing it but Wanda always finds that it can make her question the stability of her knees. “Thank you.” In conjunction with the smile fading from his face is the way he fiddles with his fingers as he watches her approach, and Wanda thinks he may be purposely performing actions he knows she considers adorable. “I have made you dinner, if you are hungry.”

When she finally reaches him, one arm wraps around his waist and the other brings him into a gentle kiss. “I’m pretty hungry, thanks.” With some reluctance he phases through her arm in order to fill a bowl, coming back and placing the steaming soup on the counter for her. “So I have a question for you.”

“I hope I have an answer.”

The bashfulness that remained on his lips slips ever so easily into a playful smirk that makes her consider not bringing up the topic, but curiosity wins out. “Why don’t you sing?”

Vision nods his head in a way that suggests he is not at all surprised by the question, reiterating this conclusion by folding his hands together, a movement Wanda knows means he is about to enter into professorial mode. “This has been bothering you for awhile.”

“What gave it away?”

“Karaoke last week was the final piece of the puzzle,” he stops, anticipating her chuckle before he continues. “I honestly do not know the answer, which is why I have been avoiding the conversation. Based on my attempts at the very unscientific method of introspection, I seem to lack,” Wanda is mesmerized by the gesture of his hands as he waves them in order to draw the appropriate word into his sentence, “an inclination towards the act. Conceivably I can sing, since clearly my vocal cords work just fine, I simply have absolutely no desire to do so. I know that it is a highly illogical and an unsatisfying response, but it is all I have.”

Wanda runs the spoon through her soup, watching the ripples shove vegetables out of the way as she considers his words. “Some people like to sing, others don’t. It makes sense, really, that we should have an opposite to Sam in the compound.” Now his laughter meets her words, head nodding in agreement at the ritual serenade they get in the morning when Sam showers, his bathroom sharing a wall with her bedroom. “But, let’s say hypothetically a villain said that he would destroy the world unless you sang…”

“Undoubtedly I would sing, dire circumstances would require it. Now,” she takes a bite of her soup while trailing her eyes along with him towards the sound system. Carefully he scrolls a finger along the screen, smiling when a smooth brass tune begins. “I have no qualms with dancing.” He glides back to her, palm up, an invitation she accepts immediately. With a self-assuredness he lacked the last time they danced, Vision twirls her into his body, encasing her with his left arm while his right seeks out her hand.

Wanda allows him to lead her around the room, bodies swaying in time with the music, sweeping around the kitchen island during a particularly lengthy crescendo. “Okay, now what about my birthday?”

Being this close, she can count every wrinkle of his brow as he stares at her in confusion. “What about it? It is not for another four months.”

“Not the point,” and she can’t help rolling her eyes at him, fingers curling into his sweater as he takes them in a new direction, “the point is, are you going to sing me happy birthday?”

“Is everyone else singing as well?”

“Yes.”

A relieved glint shines in his eyes as he bends forward, Mindstone cool against her skin where their foreheads touch. “Then it is unneeded. But of course,” no warning precedes the dip he executes to perfection, a rush of blood to her cheeks as she hangs in his arm, bodies pressed close together. “If you desired me to sing, I would on that occasion.”

Wanda can’t help the grin forming on her face, “Excellent.” He pulls her back up into a gentle embrace before swooping them into the common area.

  


“Mr. Barton, is that truly necessary?” A high-pitched peel of laughter greets the question, accompanied by the ungraceful clapping of tiny hands. For at least the twentieth time Vision rebuilds the tower of blocks, amusement flickering across his face as Nathaniel knocks the tower down again, cheeks scrunching in prideful joy at the destruction. “Ah yes, I see that the red block was clearly in the wrong place.” And Vision reconstructs the tower only for it to reach the same demise.

Wanda finds it hard not to stare. She wasn't sure how Vision would handle babysitting with her, but he insisted on helping, not wanting her to watch all three kids alone for a weekend. Clint was hesitant, though Laura encouraged Vision joining her so long as nothing went beyond PG once the kids were in bed.

“Vision!”  Cooper’s voice severs her thoughts, causing her to glance over at the boy. “I think I fell into another logical fallacy.”

“That's because you are a logical fallacy.”

“Shut up, Lila. I don't see you on puzzle thirteen yet.” Much to Wanda's surprise, the introduction of logic puzzles the night before during a small feud between the siblings has served as a blessedly engrossing task.

Carefully Vision moves his legs to stand up, hands scooching Nathaniel forward so he doesn't knock him over. As he walks to the table, Wanda can barely contain her smile when Nathaniel flops onto his belly and crawls behind Vision. “May I see your puzzle?” The tablet is placed flat on the table and the two of them hunch over it. “Ah yes, you seem to have been led astray with clue five, it is a list of mutually exclusive items which means none can overlap.”

“Oh, thanks!”

A half scream, half cry comes from the floor where Nathaniel is standing unsteadily with his fingers gripping Vision’s trousers. “Mr. Barton.” Without hesitation he bends over and picks the baby up, arms wrapping securely around his squirming body. “Lila, how is your puzzle?”

“Good, I don't get fooled by mutual excl...mutual exclush...exclusive lists.”

Wanda puts the last two playing cards on top of the house her and Lila had been building, securing it with her powers before addressing the room. “Are you guys ready for the movie?” A harmonized “Yes!” greets her words as the two oldest run towards the couch, leaving her and Vision (and technically Nathaniel) alone for the first time all day, so it is a simple pleasure to place a hand between his shoulder blades, drawing his attention. “Do you want bedtime duty or movie duty?”

“I can attempt bedtime.”

“Sounds good.” Lifting slightly up on her toes, she pulls on his sweater until he has bent down just enough for her to peck his cheek. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Wanda grabs a bag of popcorn from the kitchen before flopping on the couch between the kids. “You know,” Lila lifts her finger at her, “my dad said that's how cooties are spread.”

“Don't worry, we’re immune.”

“Wait,” Cooper sits up, eyes squinting in concentration as he thinks through her comment, “how do you get immune? It's not a shot, is it?”

Red wisps pick up the remote, turning the tv on and starting the movie all while dimming the lights. “Not a shot, it's a natural immunity that you grow into. You'll know when it happens. But your dad can tell you more about that.” Which, thankfully satisfies them enough to divert their attention to the movie.

They (well Wanda is the only one still awake) are halfway through the movie when it occurs to her that it shouldn't take this long for Nathaniel to fall sleep. Furtively she slides off of the couch, powers catching Lila as she slumps to the side, repositioning her on the armrest before she heads down the hallway.

The lights in the nursery are out, save for a star projecting octopus that illuminates the outline of Vision swaying in the middle of the room. A tiny whimper comes from his arms and Wanda thinks she sees a small hand lift to touch Vision’s face which results in an uncharacteristically defeated sigh. She is about to offer help when Vision speaks. “Mr. Barton,” a coo responds, chubby fingers grabbing the vibranium on his chin again, “you are far too persuasive for your size. You may even challenge Wanda at her best.” At the mention of her name, Wanda ducks out of the doorway, taking a seat against the wall, torn between giving him privacy and wanting to enjoy the moment.

And that's when it starts, a soft hum, slow and meandering, done so perfectly she can imagine the way his body is rocking. The tune is instantly recognizable, a feeling of joy and an outstretched hand offering her to dance. When the Sokovian words drift quietly from the room her heart swells, tears pricking at her eyes, disregarding the way he fumbles some of the pronunciation. Though she desperately wants to keep listening, a deep yearning growing stronger with each note, Wanda feels a competing guilt at listening in on his moment. So she heads back to the living room, delicately shaking the shoulders of the sleeping kids and leading them, arms wrapped around them for support and guidance, up the stairs to their rooms. Once they're asleep she waits on the couch, passively watching the movie.

“Nathaniel is quite the rapscallion, every time I placed him in the crib he would immediately stand and demand to be picked up.” Without thought or warning or reservations she stands and kisses him, hands on either side of his face, and the time it takes for his fingers to grip her waist is a clear sign of his surprise. Yet easily they fall into their rhythm, an idleness in the way their lips respond that raises the hairs along her arm. Eventually he pulls away, hand coming up to brush her face. “Is everything okay?”

A nod is all she can muster at the moment, eyes taking in the lazy turn of his irises and the concern on his face. “I heard you.” The dilation of his pupils is quick, but softens at the rise of his lips, fingers brushing against her cheek again.

“I know, you are not particularly stealthy.”

“Hey,” Wanda shoves his shoulder before pulling him in for another kiss.“It sounded good, but that's not surprising given your silky smooth voice.” Though she can feel a subtle tinge of embarrassment from his mind, his face remains impressively calm.

“Contain your excitement, I do not anticipate it becoming a common occurrence, as it was a response to a truly dire circumstance.”

She shrugs, fingers hugging his neck a bit tighter. “That's fine. Do you want to dance with me?”

“Always, Wanda.” And she grins at him as she sets their hands, humming the Sokovian melody while they sway in the middle of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!!
> 
> Ariosto, your request is next, I promise!


	10. The Marshmallow Test

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vision learns what it means to be thirsty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ariosto, here it is, my attempt at thirsty, slightly more assertive Vision. Not going to lie, way more challenging than I thought.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Vision finds his mouth lifting at the sight of Wanda's hair rising and falling with her self-made wind as she spins in her chair, the rotation increasing each time she pushes her foot against the table leg. After five minutes her foot touches the ground and stays, body swaying to the side as the chair comes to a stop and Vision strives not to stare at the way her skirt responds to the change in gravity, scrunching up to reveal an extra inch of her thigh. Slowly Wanda leaves the chair, hands gripping the armrests while taking the first hesitant steps towards him. When her body begins listing to the right, Vision stands to grab her arms, steadying her against his chest. “Did that provide clarity to the discussion?”

“I think so, but what was the other option again?”

“Um,” his mind blanks, attention drawn moreso to the feeling of her arms beneath his hands and the scent of apple from her shampoo. “Oh yes, it was, for the rest of your life, having to spin for five minutes before standing from any chair or never using a chair again.”

A contemplative hmmm vibrates against his chest as she wraps her arms snugly around his waist. Though her voice is muffled by his body he can still process most of the words, “Will spinning and standing end like this every time?”

Vision finds it curious, the way their actions have, overtime, morphed from nervous and hesitant, to automatic and instinctual. The next words leave his mouth effortlessly and well before he has a chance to lessen the playful tone of his own voice. “I am sure something could be arranged.”  And, unsurprisingly, Wanda responds in kind, half lidded eyes and sultry smile drawing him down, fingers dancing excitedly along his back as she rises on to her toes, and all other thoughts dissipate into the air, replaced solely by the eagerness of anticipation. 

And then, they are saved. 

“Uh Scarlet Vision, this is Mothership.” Wanda drops back onto flat feet, thumping her head into his chest with an annoyed sigh as Rhodes’ overly enthusiastic voice interrupts them through the communications system (not for the first time or the tenth). “A few things. One, please note we still have 10 hours left of this godforsaken marathon of a mission. Two, we can see everything you do. And three, no one has money on this hour so kindly step away from each other.”

Reluctantly they part, both returning to their seats and Vision checks the surveillance monitor again, ensuring that the warehouse is still empty and as mundane as ever before he shifts into a slightly more comfortable position. “Our apologies, Mothership.” 

This time Sam takes over the comms, the smile on his face evident in the sing song nature of his comment. “No worries Scarlet Vision. I have my next money on hour 352, so just wait until then.”  

Wanda scrunches up her nose at the response, a steely determination in her eyes that suggests she is not going to break down now. Even though Vision harbors the same determination to win, there is a slight problem that he did not anticipate. Somehow he has found himself in a state of disturbing irrationality and lack of discipline, unable to stop thinking about running his hands through Wanda’s hair, kissing her neck gently, finding the spot just above her collarbone that alway elicits contented laughter that ever so easily tumbles into breathy sighs. It doesn’t help at all that her sweatshirt keeps slipping, drawing his attention to the smooth skin of her shoulder. His fingers long to run along the- “Vision.”  Her voice shocks him, breaking his dangerous reverie. “Your turn to make a decision.” 

“Oh,” he examines the chair he is in, leg pushing softly against the ground to test the rate of spin it would require to utilize the least amount of energy. “Since I do not have traditional ears, I lack the vestibular system that would make me dizzy from spinning, which means my decision is the spinning before standing.” 

“So does that mean you won't even try?”

“Not at all,” with minimal effort he sets the chair in motion. “This is an effective way to pass the time.” Vision assumed that conversation would be easy regardless of his motion, yet he finds that each spin proves the task more difficult. When he feels the unmistakeable brush of Wanda's powers, coupled with the steady increase in his speed, a feeling of disorientation begins to creep into his mind. This feeling continues to grow, crawling into the tips of his fingers as he grips the edges of the chair tighter. Unfortunately (and unsurprisingly if he were to consider the laws of physics), the cessation of motion doesn't stop his own body from wanting to continue spinning, and so he finds himself fighting to regain control of his limbs. 

“You know you have to stand now.” Hesitantly he pushes his hands down in order to stand from the chair, a brief, infinitesimal dizziness causes him to sway to the side, but once he stares down at his feet his balance is back to normal. “Let me help you.” Wanda's hands touch his waist on either side and then gradually move around him, traveling lower than would ever be helpful for balance. 

“I believe I am fine, Wanda. My proprioception was only minimally affected.”

“Better safe than sorry.” A slight squeeze of her hands instigates the grin lifting his lips up, amazed (and definitely a bit distracted) at how comfortable she is in her boldness. “I'll just hold you a bit longer, to be sure.”

Vision brings a hand to her face, idly tracing her cheek. “I appreciate your diligence.” 

“By the way,” the volume of her voice lowers, forcing him to decrease the distance between them so he can hear her, “I really appreciated your strategic leaning over tables whenever I was on comms.” 

Vision finds his voice matching hers as she draws him closer. “I am glad it brought you some joy.”

The stunning smile on her face freezes briefly, edges drooping just enough to betray her displeasure when her eyes shift to the camera in the room, and then he too realizes how dangerously close they are standing and how easily they fell right back into routine. Both take a step back, extricating themselves from the embrace. “Okay, I um,” her hands nervously run along the fabric of her dress, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles, “I'm going to run out real fast to get food. Be right back.”

“Excellent idea.” A breath leaves his lungs as she shuts the door, body ungracefully falling back into his chair as he attempts to purge the desire from his thoughts. It is wholly unprofessional, undignified, and irritating to be controlled by his own body in such a way and yet, much to his chagrin, it is also oddly exhilarating. In an attempt to reform his wavering fortitude, he reframes his thoughts away from the pessimism of their current circumstance (350 hours thus far without kissing Wanda) to the optimistic view that there is just under 3% of the fifteen day surveillance mission left. Plus, if they continue to be fastidious, the current bet on their ability to withhold affection (luckily cuddling is not a barred form of affection) has the biggest pot of all the bets from the past two weeks. Second place going to how quickly someone could get Steve to pull the language card, the honor of which went to Wanda and her colorful rant about the mission. Even though he believes monetarily incentivized entertainment is a bit unethical, they would end up with more than enough money for a weekend trip.  Vision nods his head, encouraged by his new mindset, and turns back to the surveillance monitor. 

  
  


When Wanda returns, he is happy to note that his thoughts do not immediately hone in on the scoop of her neckline or the tinge of red on her cheeks from the cold wind that is reminiscent of the glow after they've. No. He can't believe his thoughts stray so quickly and resolves to repress them for the duration of the mission. Or at least until she goes to sleep for the night. “Did you enjoy your meal?”

“Yeah, it was decent. Did I miss anything exciting?”

“Well, an abnormally shaped dust particle floated past camera four.” 

The warmth of her laughter envelopes his chest as she places a chaste kiss on his cheek. “What're you watching?” Wanda lifts a finger up to the video of a child dressed in a dalmatian outfit staring despondently at a marshmallow. 

“While you were gone I began investigating the concept of delay of gratification. It is the ability to forego immediate rewards for better long term payoff. This child,” he directs her attention back to the screen, “for instance has been told that if he does not eat the marshmallow then he will receive a second one once the researcher returns.”

“And if he eats it?”

“Then he receives no other marshmallow.” 

Wanda pushes his arm to the side so that there is room for her to sit on his lap, head coming to rest against his shoulder as one arm snakes around his neck. They watch as the kid crosses his arms, placing his chin down so that he can stare longingly at the marshmallow, every so often poking it with his finger to make sure it is real. “This poor kid.” The words are broken apart with the sound of her amusement as they watch the child squirm and glare at the marshmallow for another six minutes. “You know, I think I would have passed this as a kid but Pietro,” her voice takes on the tinge of sorrow that is always reserved for her brother, but the joy of the thought outweighs it enough for her to still laugh. “Pietro probably would have eaten both his and mine before the person even left the room.” 

“I assume I would have passed quite easily,” he shrugs his shoulders before bringing his arm to rest around her waist, enjoying the simple comfort of her body against his, “though since my cognitive capabilities were fully developed upon birth, I should perform above children on such a task.”

“You're so full of it sometimes,” which is said in such a loving way that he cannot take offense at the words and so he simply pulls her closer, resting his own head on top of hers. “You know full well you’re only looking at this because I,” Wanda pushes against him to sit up, turning in his lap so that her mischievous eyes meet his, creating a longing deep within his chest to pull her down to him, “am your delicious, off limits marshmallow.” All he can muster in response is a slight nod, hand running up her arm, along her shoulder, and grazing her neck as he pushes her hair back, eyes never leaving the crescent turn of her lips. “Tell me, what happens if,” now his breathing stops, Wanda lazily leaning into his chest, hand bracing against his muscles as her face hovers mere centimeters from his, “you take just a nibble?”

And what he wouldn’t give for such a thing, though he is cognizant that if he closes the distance, stealing one small kiss, that it will spiral into something that he fears he cannot conceivably control. “Unfortunately, even a nibble counts.” 

“Damn,” Wanda pulls away, turning around so that her back is settled against him, directing his arm to wrap around her waist as she lolls her head against his shoulder. Out of nowhere the voice of Marvin Gaye fills the room and Vision checks the time. They are now within one of Sam’s many hours, his not terribly subtle and, quite honestly, blessedly mood ruining intervention loosening the tension in Vision’s shoulders. “But,” Wanda’s voice pulls him back to her, a grin clear in the rise of her cheeks, “once this is over, and the marshmallow is fair game, all I want is for you to  tolknut' menya k stene i imet' svoy put' so mnoy.**” 

If he could blush he would, so instead he has to settle for a shaky “okay.” 

  
  


Lightly he nudges her shoulder, his first attempts at waking her are always soft, fully aware that any faster and she does not wake cheerfully. After the first round of gentle shaking and soothingly saying her name, he opts for the slightly expedited method of placing her breakfast and tea on a chair next to her face and leaving to return to the cameras. Eventually he can hear the clinking of rings against the ceramic mug and then the shuffling of feet as she approaches him, sagging into the empty chair with eyes still half closed. “Good morning, Wanda.”

“Morning.”  Silence befalls the room, allowing her time to collect the strands of dreams from the night (based on how much she tossed and turned he imagines they were unpleasant) and wake up enough to hold a semblance of a conversation. “Did I miss anything?”

Vision shakes his head, “Not at all. Quiet as usual.” 

They continue to sit in companionable peace, attempting to enjoy the appearance of sunrise on the outside surveillance cameras, though it lacks color. When the comm unit kicks to life, Wanda startles, mug stopping an inch from the ground as she wraps it in red and brings it back to her hands. “Good morning team.” The utter disgust on Wanda’s face makes him laugh, her tongue sticking out in disbelief that Steve can be so chipper this early in the morning. “We are officially done with the mission. Everyone pack up your site and we’ll meet back at the compound in three hours. Please take some time to rest before debriefing.” 

“Hmm.”

Despite becoming more skilled at decoding the various non-words she uses, Vision cocks his head to the side as he studies her. “What?”

“We’re free to do whatever we want.” The words awaken an effervescent joy, heat racing through his body as he takes in the broadening smile on her face. “How about I pack up this room, you grab the warehouse, and then we get back to the compound and take a couple hours for ourselves?” Wanda tips back the rest of the tea, grabbing the toast from her plate and eating it as red surrounds several items at once, placing them in their given containers and bags as she efficiently moves through the room. Vision begins to leave for the warehouse, mind running through the tear down checklist he studied all night but when his eyes fall on Wanda, hands bending and waving in intricate, mesmerizing patterns, he finds the checklist forgotten, replaced by an unusual wave of electric nervousness as his thoughts all crash into one, Wanda-shaped focus. 

Instead of leaving, he walks over to the table, unplugging the surveillance system that tied them to the compound, and in one swift motion (attempting the boldness and confidence he admires so much in Wanda), he turns Wanda around, hands gripping the backs of her thighs as he lifts her up, guiding her legs to wrap around his waist, and captures her lips. A surprised “Ah!” and the dropping of her toast are her first responses, but the second he pushes her against the wall her legs wrap even more snugly around his waist and arms encircle his neck as her mouth opens against his. Almost three weeks worth of absence makes their motions hurried, nails digging into his back, his hands unabashedly running along her thighs, and when he breaks from her mouth, her objection at the loss transforms into a laugh as his lips finally are able to trail along her neck, sucking lightly at the spot just above her collarbone, eliciting a sigh that encourages him to press their bodies closer together. When he moves back up her neck, one hand leaving her leg so that he can run his fingers through her hair, the impatience of her kiss unravels any semblance of ordered thought that remained. 

The ecstatic single syllable “Vizh,” that meets his auditory receptors with each kiss and touch, guides his movements, body growing denser (which is met with an increase in enthusiasm and a lower, huskier “Vizh”) and hand gripping her side as he counters the push of her body to keep them balanced. Wanda brings both hands to his face, forcing him to remain still so she can change their pace, slowing down from hurried and feverish to luxuriously lazy kisses, lips lingering for several seconds before moving again. He responds in kind, hands slowing so that he can feel every hair standing on end when he brushes her arm, can enjoy the transition from the cotton of her knee high socks to the warmth of her thigh. The honey from her tea hovers between them, the sweetness intermingling with the way her breath against his mouth ignites his senses. Most beautiful, however, is the scarlet gleam in her eyes when he pulls back to look at her, hair curling around his fingers and face flushed with a subtle shade of rose, lips upturned into an indescribable smirk. Vision closes his eyes the next time he kisses her, striving to catalog each sensation and emotion. But when her tongue touches his, every last thought in his head is eradicated, replaced by the need to never let this end.  

  
  


They arrive back at the compound considerably later than planned, Vision phasing them through the walls so they aren't late to the debriefing. Wanda acts as if nothing is strange about phasing into the room in his arms, smoothing her dress as she sits in her usual spot and politely swiveling the chair to her left so that it is easier for him to sit down. 

The debriefing is relatively short, and Vision is relieved to note that he is processing everything being said, compartmentalizing each piece of information to mull over for future missions. The greatest accomplishment is that this is all happening even with the sliver of skin peeking from between the top of Wanda’s socks and the hem of her dress. Hesitantly he moves his hand, laying it on her leg and is met with the encouraging pressure of her own hand on top of his.

Once Steve wraps it up with an  “Alright everyone, good job,” Vision remains seated, a spark of amusement at the confusion on Wanda's face as the last of their teammates leave the room. Slowly he swings her chair around until they face each other, hand traveling lazily up her thigh. “So,” her body responds of its own volition, gravitating towards him, playing with the collar of his shirt as she stares in anticipation, “are you ready for your second marshmallow?” 

“Oh my god, Vizh.” The shaking of her shoulders jostles him, the ebb and flow of her laughter making it difficult to parse out her words. “Be honest, how long did you and Sam work on smooth talking?”

According to Sam, Lesson 6 requires that he fully commits to the line, staying serious in the face of ridicule, but when Wanda hiccups his resolve breaks. “About four hours.”

“You know what's sad?” 

“What?” 

Wanda crawls onto his lap, pushing against his chest until the chair leans back and her hair spills around his face so that the only thing he can see is her flirtatious grin and the glow of red in her eyes. “It's working.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Translation: Push me to the wall and have your way with me


	11. Ours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vision and Wanda begin to navigate the journey from yours and mine to ours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to take a minute to say thank you, from the bottom of my heart (seriously) to everyone who reads this story. Each and every action you take with this story (whether it be hits, kudos, comments) means so much to me because I love writing it and the greatest joy from writing is to know people enjoy it. 
> 
> So, thanks for all the support. Now, as always, I hope you enjoy!

Wanda sits up, arms stretching to the side as she encourages the ever present tightness to leave her muscles, and proceeds to fall back into her pillows. For some reason her and Vision are almost always relegated to compound duty when smaller, minimal power missions occur. Which, on the one hand, is annoying, as she’d rather fulfill her duty as an Avenger, while on the other hand, she considers as she scoots lower into her mountain of blankets, having a day or three off with Vision is nothing to scoff at, especially when she can sleep past six. 

Speaking of which, “Vizh?” Only the quiet whirring of the humidifier greets her words, and Wanda has to consider the utility of leaving the comfort of her cave or remaining and waiting for him to inevitably cycle back to her room.  She decides on an in-between strategy, lifting the corner of the blankets so she can sniff, attempting to detect the citrus waft that usually permeates the air. But, oddly, it is absent for the first time in over a year...not that she expects it necessarily, but it is a pleasant ritual. Wanda sighs, “Fine.” A haze descends around her as she goes through the movements of getting ready, shower hot and quick, hair left dripping wet as she throws a dress on and makes her way to the kitchen. “You know Vizh, there are less cruel ways to get me out of bed.” She finally looks up, eyes glancing around the kitchen and into the equally empty common space. “Vision?” 

The whistle of the kettle startles her, red engulfing her hands, dissipating only when she identifies the culprit. Her eyes narrow as her feet carry her into the kitchen, hands moving automatically while she pours the boiling water into the empty mug kindly placed on the counter with a tea bag at the ready. As she brings the mug up, breathing in its spicy undertones, her attention is drawn down by a folded up piece of paper on the counter. A flick of her index finger opens the paper and hovers it at eye level, a grin spreading across her face as her chest constricts in adoration. 

_ Good morning, Wanda. My sincerest apologies for cruelly tricking you out of bed with the lack of tea. Whenever you are ready, I would be overjoyed if you joined me for a picnic.  -V _

She tucks the note into the pocket of her dress before turning around and strolling along the halls of the compound, climbing several flights of stairs as she walks the maze of passageways and doors until she eventually reaches a random ladder that leads to what has come to be known as “their spot.” Mug floating beside her, she pulls herself up and through the hatch in the ceiling, eyes closing at the warmth of sunlight on her skin. “Vizh.” 

“Wanda,” strong arms wrap around her before a peck on her cheek pulls the smile further up her face. “How did you sleep?

“Amazingly.” With minimal effort she manages to turn herself around, coming to face him so she can pull him into a kiss. “What’s the occasion?” 

The confident smirk on his face wavers slightly. “Oh, um, I simply figured that we should do something fun while not being allowed to leave the compound. Please,” Vision steps away, one arm still wrapped around her waist as he leads her to a blanket placed strategically in the shade created by the two trees on the grass.  Wanda never knew this part of the compound existed, honestly never considered a grassy park would be needed on a sliver of roof overlooking the glass walkways, but since Vision discovered it, they have come up here a few times per week.  “Because you have not eaten since last night, I have prepared  a plethora of dishes ranging from traditional breakfast to your typical lunch fare, depending on the predilection of your tastebuds.”  

Wanda lifts the lids, scoping out the buffet of deliciousness he’d managed to amass, head nodding in approval as she fills her plate. “Okay, be honest, what’s the deal?”

“Is it truly inconceivable for me to simply wish to spend time with you?”

Which, if his eyes would stop rotating so quickly, sure, Wanda could believe it, but though Vision errs on the side of romantic simplicity, he has a tendency for grander gestures whenever there is something he wishes to ask her that he (usually incorrectly) deems might be met with resistance. Adding to the charm of it is that he tends to lack the ability to calibrate the level of buttering up to the seriousness of the question. For instance, when he wanted to suggest adding a footstool to go with her armchair, he prepared a candlelit dinner. The time he was contemplating a change in his uniform that might end up de-emphasizing her favorite asset (a change that was met with resistance), he had Stark call in a favor at a multi-Michelin starred restaurant. But when he wished to discuss their official relationship status it occurred in the middle of playing poker.  “You're right, sorry.” 

And, unsurprisingly, he sighs, shoulders dropping slightly as he reaches underneath the blanket and hands her a packet. “I did not realize the predictability of my actions.” 

The sheepishness of his movements, eyes downcast and fingers twiddling, is causing her to become nervous. Slowly she flips the first page, curiosity sprouting at the title ( _ An Analysis of Allocation of Time as it Relates to Individual Quarters) _ and only growing as she scans pages of carefully constructed graphs and tables of numbers spanning their entire relationship. “Vision, can you summarize this for me?”

“There is a summary statement on the last page.”

So she flips to the last page 

_ Based on careful analysis of both quantitative and coded qualitative data (kappa = .83), it is concluded that a disproportionate amount of time is spent within the same vicinity for tasks deemed to be part of ordinary functioning. Further, a careful qualitative analysis of comments provides potentially strong support for the suggested paradigm shift. Thus it is considered a statistically supported conclusion to combine living quarters for the continuation of the studied relationship. _

Wanda reads it over three more times to be certain she understands. “Are you suggesting we move in together?” 

“Correct.” The drawn out  _ r _ s betray his uncertainty, clarifying exactly why he decided to write it down instead of ask, the somewhat wild look in his eyes suggests he may phase through the ground at any second.  When he speaks again, it is barely a whisper. “You have made several jokes in the past weeks for which I could never confidently conclude were simply for humor or contained a subtextual suggestion.” Obviously she knows that she needs to respond, but is so surprised (and frankly a bit turned on) by the fact that he took the initiative to make the suggestion that she remains silent. Wanda had always assumed this would just happen naturally and she'd fail to draw his attention to it until he'd gotten so entrenched in the routine of living together that he'd just continue going along with it. “Wanda, I am concerned with your silence.”

“Oh, sorry,” she drops the paper and moves over to him, their fingers intertwining as she leans against his shoulder. “Yes, Vision. Hell yes, let's do it.” A relieved and long held breath escapes his chest. “Don't we have to get permission and do paperwork?”

The nonchalant lift and fall of his shoulders shakes her head. “Technically yes, though I believe it may be opportune, given our current circumstances, to act first and ask permission later.”

“You rebel,” she leans her chin up to smile at him, “that might be the sexiest thing you've ever said.”

“Really?” All she can manage is a mmhmm in conjunction with her hand trailing along his thigh. “Well, perhaps we should take this to our room then?” And Wanda was wrong, because she's never heard anything better than the word  _ our _ , enunciated in the poised, polite, and perfect flow of his voice. 

  
  
  


“It feels different, doesn't it?”

Vision shifts next to her, head nodding as he glances around the room. “It does.”  

  
Technically nothing in the room has changed, the furniture is in the same place, pillows still haphazardly thrown on the chair, just as they were this morning, even the pile of clothes spilling out of the closet hasn’t grown, and yet, it no longer seems like the room she’s been living in since joining the Avengers. Wanda isn’t sure if this is a normal occurrence or not, having never gotten this far in any other relationship, mainly thanks to the interference of Pietro as well as just not meeting anyone worth it. So maybe it's supposed to feel different, but, somehow it is a worrisome different instead of the excited different she expected. “Should we maybe go and do something and come back later?” 

“Excellent suggestion, perhaps we can make another attempt at Pandemic.” The mattress hugs her closer as he stands from the bed, and Wanda smirks at the way he meticulously rearranges the molecules of his clothing to regain an unruffled appearance. 

“Turn to the right a bit, I think you missed a wrinkle.”  

Vision unquestionably follows her suggestion, turning his body just enough so that his back is to her and allows her plenty of opportunity to appreciate the view. A snicker escapes her lips as he glances at her, shaking his head with a embarrassed smile on his face. “I always fall for it.”

“You do. How about you set up the game and I’ll join you in just a minute.” He nods before phasing out of the room and Wanda takes the time to study everything again. It’s not his presence that throws off the feel of the room, clearly, he has been in and out of her room so many times that him being there isn’t an issue.  Curious about another option, Wanda leaves her room and walks three doors down to Vision’s space, lifting her hand to the scanner and entering once the door unlocks. His room (well, potentially their room) always felt so impersonal to her, all it has is a rarely used and firm bed shoved into the corner, sheets pristine as ever, and two chairs in the center of the room with a small coffee table between them. The chairs are turned to face the painting on the wall, a small, museum-esque plaque underneath it identifying it as a replica of Monet’s  _ The Park at Monceau Paris _ and she smiles as her fingers run along the frame, remembering the first time she ever came into his room. Even though they had barely spoken by that point, he insisted that she was the most capable of providing an opinion of the painting's placement and levelness, which led to a two hour long analysis of the painting, listing the various colors and the way they blend together to form the shapes of the tree, and asking how it impacted her. If she remembers correctly all she said was “It’s pretty, I guess.” 

Wanda steps away, eyes roaming along the rest of the room, noticing minor personalized touches, namely a couple of frames, one with a picture of them from the Stark Charity Ball and another a picture of her laughing, though she isn’t sure when he took it. It doesn’t take long for her to confirm that this is not where they should live. Which just brings her back to stage 1, how can they make her room into their room?  With a sigh she falls back into one of the chairs, thoughts annoyingly clouded as she stares at the painting. 

“Wanda?” 

Guilt crawls up her neck, no doubt in the form of a blush, as she attempts to figure out how long she’s been sitting in here. “Sorry, I got distracted.”

Vision sits down next to her, hand hanging over the armrest so his fingers can rest on the glass of the table, and she imagines this is how he typically sits when he is in here. “I have been attempting to ascertain the source of divergence for our perception of the room.”

“And?”

The tapping of his fingers against the table becomes a point of fixation while she waits for him to continue. “I believe it may be a psychological shift in the perception of our relationship in that this acknowledges a deeper layer of commitment than consciously existed before.” 

“But we’ve essentially been living together for however long.”

“Roughly three weeks, at least since I was last in my room.”

Huh, she had not realized it had already been that long. “Okay, but it’s not like we didn’t know we were committed to each other before. So it’s just that we’ve actually said it out loud then? Nothing more?” 

Vision unhelpfully shrugs, adding nothing more as he joins her in staring at the painting. It feels like a good ten minutes before he speaks, the tone of his voice matching the wistful smile on his face as he raises his hand to indicate the painting. “Do you remember when I hung this?”

“I was actually just thinking about it.”

“Did you know that I had been attempting to figure out how to have a conversation with you for six days?” The picture is no longer of any interest to her, eyes sliding to the side to watch as he nervously shifts in his chair, smile growing bashful as he continues. “You had been quite reticent following Sokovia, for obvious reasons, and I wished to engage you in conversation to build camaraderie and make sure you were okay. As you likely remember, I began phasing through your room but could never muster the confidence to say anything. Sam eventually suggested that I locate an object to converse over and so I decided on this painting.” 

“You know he probably meant like a cookie or something, right.”

He finally turns his face to smile at her, a self-conscious laugh emerging from his lips. “I do now, yes.”

It takes barely a second for her to reach a decision, standing so quickly from the chair that it moves back an inch from the force. Her arms cross over each other, fingers twisting into intricate patterns as she blankets the painting in red, knees bending as she lifts it from the wall before moving it out of Vision’s room, down the hall, and into her room. Vision stays out of her way, worry clear in the grimace that crosses his mouth each time the painting slips towards the ground, hands clenching as she removes power from one side of the painting in order to clear the wall across from the bed. Carefully she places the picture, powers remaining in use until she is sure the nail will withstand the weight of the painting. “What do you think?” But when she turns around Vision is gone. “Vizh?”

His head pops back through the wall, followed quickly by his body as he phases in, gingerly placing his two pictures on the tv stand. Joining her with a hand to her back, he stares at the new additions, an adorable and content grin bunching the skin around his eyes. “I like it.” 

And with just one change it no longer feels like just her room, and while not entirely his, it seems like a step in the right direction, her mind already contemplating the aspects they can change further, mold to their tastes and whims. “So this is our room?”

  
“Ours.” A tremble shakes the word from his mouth and she worries that he is reconsidering the decision until he swoops her up into his arms, lips pressing against hers as he spins them around the room.  Wanda can’t help from laughing, knowing that this is the new norm, and it feels different in the best way possible. 


	12. Daydreaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vision finds his thoughts wandering late at night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a result of life/stress-induced insomnia and way too much HGTV. It's a bit different (and shorter) from all the other chapters. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Side note: Yay snow day!

Vision decides he is not a fan of wood paneling, though in moderation it is okay, but after the third house in a row with questionable amounts of wood on the walls, he determines it is an unattractive feature. Now tastefully done wainscoting is another matter, adding a touch of regal charm to a room if done in an accentuating manner.  What he doesn’t understand the most is why it seems that humans move so quickly from one style to another. If open concept is as desirable as all of these shows make it appear, why is it that the people who originally built the houses put up so many walls? How long will it be until everyone wishes to put the walls back up, desiring sectioning off of their lives, separating out the daily functions to their exclusive places?

“House 3,” is whispered into the air, his predictions hovering at roughly a 75% accuracy rating, not quite Wanda’s impressive 89.5%. Not that it is a competition, but if he utilizes the middle of the night downtime to build an algorithm for predicting the correct house, it is simply from boredom and nothing else. Or so he likes to tell himself. The couple announces that House 1 is perfect and Vision can feel the edges of his lips lowering, thoughts racing over the comments made in the show to support such a conclusion. He reaches down to grab the remote, mindful of keeping his movements as minimal as possible so as not to disturb Wanda’s arm thrown over his waist and her head tucked underneath his jaw, her gentle snoring causing ripples on his sweater. A quick rewind to the chosen house doesn’t clarify matters, negative comments and complaints heaped upon disapproving faces. If Wanda were awake she’d no doubt reassure him by saying the editing of the shows can be misleading, but such a conclusion is not supported by her ability to pick correctly. Again, not a competition. 

Vision releases a lazy breath, eyes glancing around the darkened room, pockets of shadows wavering with the changing colors of the television. Some nights he considers how pleasant it must be to sleep, escape from life to fall into vivid dreams and awaken to sunlight and company. He does technically go into a sleep-like state at least once every other week, but his dreams are far less surreal than the ones Wanda projects into their joined minds. Right now his mind can feel hers churning, images flashing as she flies above a twisted and prismatic landscape. A smile forms on her face, a contented sigh breaking apart the snores as her fingers cinch the fabric of his clothes. He bends down to place a kiss on her head, arm curling more snugly around her waist. Boredom, no matter how mundane, can never take away the enjoyment of her body pressed to his, the flicker of serenity that crosses their mental link whenever his fingers run through her hair or down her arm.  

The next show starts, drawing his eyes back to the screen. Shiplap. Vision isn’t sure how he feels about shiplap as it is essentially wood paneling but when painted white it can be tolerable. A mumbled “No shiplap…” ascends from his shoulder and he smirks at the disgust on her face, projecting into her mind a house full of shiplap which causes deeper lines in her skin as her eyes close harder and a firm frown descends on her mouth. Vision brushes a hand through her hair to comfort the nightmare he caused her, replacing it with a simple thought of dancing, and Wanda’s body relaxes, muscles loosening and the weight of sleep pushing into his body. 

If Vision had to choose a house, a novelty that he doubts will ever happen, he hasn’t yet determined what he would go for. There is an inherent draw towards modernity with its clean lines, sleek finishes, and minimalistic designs. Wanda always smacks his shoulder when such a house is on the tv, telling him that it makes her think of him. He’d want Wanda to be happy with the house, obviously, at least assuming she would be joining him. But he also deeply appreciates the homes with character, old and full of history, eccentric design elements that betray the passing fad of the decade of construction. The compound is younger than even himself, and Vision wonders what it would be like to live in a home that has experienced significantly more years than him, intrigued by the stories the walls must tell at night while everyone sleeps. Plus, though he has not made it known, such homes remind him of Wanda for the very reason that they are eclectic and bold, an unapologetic display of their stunningly beautiful imperfections. 

Curious at how deep of a sleep she is in, Vision constructs a brief moment of doubt in his mind, conveying the image of the last time someone refused him business, calling him a robot. When she doesn’t sleepily sit up and glare at him and when there is no “stop that,” thickly accented from drowsiness, he smiles, settling his shoulders further into the pillow propped against their headboard. He attempts to not allow much time for daydreaming (well, technically night dreaming), believing it to be a futile exercise that creates unnecessary longing for things that will never happen. But sometimes there isn’t much else to do. 

Unsure how others daydream, he starts with a quick search of houses in the surrounding area, curious at how much money would be needed to buy a modest, yet impressive home. There are several brownstones available at the moment, but he cannot imagine wanting to share walls with their neighbors. A stunning colonial comes up next, reasonably (he thinks) priced at $425,000, yet he isn’t sure if he can see Wanda in such a house. Then he finds it, an arctic blue Victorian with sapphire trim, a turret (which is surprisingly appealing to him) on the left side of the house and an impressive wraparound porch. Before they even walk into the house, he knows Wanda would insist on buying. Luckily, based on the available pictures, the inside is equally intricate and ornate, an engulfing sense of antiquity and class exuding from the walls. There is even a spiral staircase inside. Vision nods, possibilities tying string to his mouth and raising it up into an excited grin. 

They would immediately put an offer in, the backing of Stark Industries a convincing tool to close on the house fast (and Wanda would be torn, dismayed at using Stark’s influence and yet, it would get them the house). And life would be idyllic, increased trips to antique stores, a desire for the furniture to enhance the style of the home, lazy days spent on the porch, Wanda lounging with a mug of tea in her hands as she tells him a story about her childhood. Perhaps, after he views images of the backyard, they would even get married under the ivy covered pergola, a small ceremony with only their closest friends. Thor could officiate, his romanticized speech a boon to the overall atmosphere of the day.  

Vision glances down at Wanda, attempting to verify if his thoughts have impacted her, nervously leaning forward to gauge her features, which remain impassive. His eyes close so he can concentrate on their link, but there is nothing coming through at the moment, and, a wave of relief crashing into his heart, she seems to be in a dreamless portion of her sleep cycle. Hesitantly he allows his thoughts to continue, eyes restlessly checking on Wanda every few minutes. 

Dr. Cho had long ago explained the limits of his body, after a series of experiments and studies to map the comparative functioning between his synthetic anatomy and, to use a phrase neither Dr. Cho nor Wanda approve of, normal anatomy.  One conclusion, which at the time seemed wholly inconsequential, asserted that there is no possibility of passing on his synthesized DNA, the structure just different enough to be incompatible. She explained that at some point the technology would be advanced enough to make such a thing probable, but likely not in her lifetime, which also means not in Wanda’s, and that is all that matters to Vision. But, for the sake of a daydream, he finds himself shedding the despair of such information, instead focusing on the possibility that Dr. Cho is wrong. 

Their house is far too big for just them, the purpose always being to expand and now the sound of tiny giggles and the patter of mischievously curious feet echo against the hardwood floors, followed by “Carefuls” and “Please don’t touch thats.” The combination of phasing through matter and telekinesis proves to be difficult to handle in a toddler, hide and seek an exercise in patience and heaped in stress. Their mornings start with a head popping up through the bed, something Wanda used to jump at but now greets with a smile and arms open wide for morning hugs. Vision startles, in real life and in the daydream, when a second child runs in through the door, speeding around the bed before leaping into his own arms. Twins, yes, twins would be fitting.

A shift against his side, a tightening of fingers, and a drawn out yawn stifles his meandering thoughts, Vision’s mind furiously bombarding hers with useless facts about saltwater crocodiles to mask any lingering images of a life that will never exist. “Morning.”

"Good morning, Wanda." He is surprised to see rays of sunlight peeking through the curtains on the window, unsure how long he remained in his fantasies and a guilt brewing deep within his stomach at not getting her tea and breakfast ready. “How did you sleep?”

Lazily she pushes off of his chest, hair scrunched into a ball where she laid against his shoulder, and a radiant smile greets him as she leans in for a long and languid kiss. “Pretty well, had a wonderful dream.”

“Oh?” Vision finds his fingers picking at the blanket. “What was it about?”

“Well,” she stops, mouth hanging open as her eyes dart to his face and then down to the comforter, thoughts racing far too quickly for him to determine why she hesitates in sharing. A blush tints her cheeks as she lays her head back on his shoulder, a shuddering breath brushing against his neck while she shrugs her shoulders.  “I can’t really remember.”  

Relief, and a peculiar sense of disappointment fills his mind as he pats her arm, lips grazing against the top of her head as he moves to stand. “I am glad it was pleasant, nonetheless. Your usual for breakfast?”

“Yeah, sounds good, thanks.” Vision nods as he turns to leave the room. A subtle pulling in his mind indicates that Wanda is about to rescind her presence, but he doesn’t miss the last image before the link is severed:a beautiful Victorian home on a quiet neighborhood street. And Vision smiles as he phases from the room. 


	13. The Difficulty of Roleplaying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda attempts to make their quiet mountain vacation take on an air of international intrigue, but instead discovers a far better role for Vision.

“Vizh, you okay in there?” 

Wanda stares at the bathroom door, barely able to contain the smirk on her face at the sound of him pacing back and forth. “This is ridiculous.”

“Come on, just show me, it can’t be that bad.” If she had to hazard a guess based on the sudden silence from behind the door, Vision is likely standing with his hands braced on either side of the sink, head down as he contemplates if he can somehow successfully phase away for long enough that she forgets about the whole situation. “I can outwait you.” Reiterating the point, she turns on the television. “Yes! There’s even a Chopped marathon. All night Vision, we have all night.” And they really do, currently on the first of their two night cabin vacation. The pacing restarts behind the door and the sheer force of her eyes rolling in disbelief knocks her onto her back where she is able to snuggle into the bed, gleefully seizing the opportunity to confiscate all of the pillows, eyes wavering between the tv and the bathroom door.

Half an episode in and the door opens slightly, a sliver of light pooling on the floor. Wanda sits up straight, pulling her legs up to cross in front of her as she rests her hands excitedly in her lap, teeth clenched in anticipation. “Wanda…” the dejection in his voice usually would be enough for her to wave a hand and say a quick ‘fine, you win’ but not today. He’s the one who had the idea, of course in all of his deeply ordered, logical considerations he somehow overlooked the danger of a carte blanche offer for her to choose his clothes. All she asked for was something reminiscent of  _ Casino Royale _ , having just finished their James Bond marathon a few weeks prior. 

The door doesn’t budge for several minutes and Wanda prepares another round of encouragement until a hesitant creak swings the door open and Vision steps out. “Oh my god, Vizh.” 

“Wanda, I feel absurd.” 

“No,” her eyes can’t decide where to focus, ricocheting side to side, up and down, attempting to take everything in at once. A wicked smile flicks her lips up as her eyes finally choose a path, starting down at his bare feet, admiring the way the vibranium trails up his legs accentuating the curve of his calf. Once she reaches his thighs where the vibranium branches to hug his muscles, Wanda bites her lip, because just a bit higher is the absurdity: teal, well fitted (unsurprisingly as all of his clothes, by the very nature of his molecular manipulation, are perfectly tailored), teeny shorts. Her gaze lingers just a bit longer on the arch of metal peeking out of the top of the swimsuit before she lazily brings her eyes up to meet his face.  “No, Vizh, you’re,” Wanda releases a breath as the vibranium taunts her eyes back down to the swimsuit, “absolutely gorgeous.” 

Vision shuffles his feet, arms crossing in front of him while his fingers intertwine and she briefly considers relenting and letting him wear a longer, looser suit. But then he shifts just a bit to the side and a new appreciation of his attire spreads a warmth through her body. “Shall I go start the hot tub?” 

Oh yes, she had forgotten why he needed a swimsuit. “In a minute, why don’t you introduce yourself.” 

Confusion settles on his face, wrinkles forming along his brow and the creases at the corners of his eyes increasing as he squints, head cocked to the side. “You know who I am.”

“Like James Bond would, but, don’t be James Bond, I want Vision.”  Wanda scooches to the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees so she can rest her chin in her hands. She’s not letting this suit go to waste.  “Come on.”

He breathes in, squaring his shoulders in an attempt to appear suave and confident. “I am Vision,” his accent betrays his uncertainty, voice cracking in the middle of his name, and Wanda finds herself waiting in anticipation for the second half. “Just Vision. Wanda, I have no last name.”

Which does throw a wrinkle into her carefully planned fantasy, though, thinking about it a bit more, it could have been more dutifully planned since she did forget to make him a roleplaying packet. After their first couple of attempts several months ago, it quickly became apparent that Vision does not do well thinking imaginatively on a whim.  “Well, just try some out.”

Vision sighs, and the ripple of his muscles mesmerizes her. “Stark -”

“Please, never bring that name into the bedroom.” 

“Okay, Cho,” he stands up a bit straighter, making eye contact, “Vision Cho.”  Wanda finds her nose scrunching up, not a fan of the flow, shaking her head at him which causes a frown to descend on his lips. “Banner?” 

“No.”

“Williams?”

“No.”

“Shade?”

Wanda’s frown deepens, each name slowly extinguishing the fire in her body. “You’re an international spy not a private detective.”

“Hammond?”

“That’s a horrible last name.”

“Pym?”

“No.”

An uncharacteristic throw of his hands indicates his defeat and she finally feels guilty, not intending to ruin the first time they have utter seclusion, not even a single communicator nor security camera in the cabin. “Perhaps I should just go start the hot tub.” 

And, as usual, it is the most logical decision given their current predicament, which means she feels a requisite need to push back. “Just try one more, and when it fails, we’ll go.”

Vision nods, lips forming a thin, tight line of contemplation, irises rotating clockwise and then counterclockwise as his fingertips tap against each other. “Maximoff.”  He only calls her that when he’s grown impatient or annoyed, typically, though not exclusively, during a mission. She opens her mouth to respond, and then he finishes. “Vision Maximoff.” Wanda finds her mind blank, fairly certain her mouth is agape and eyes are wide but she can’t seem to kickstart her brain enough to control her body, every inch of her consumed in an inferno. Another sigh leaves his mouth. “I shall start the hot tub.”

“No…” he stops at the patio doors, hand resting on the doorknob. “You,” words flee from her grasp, making it impossible to form a full sentence, “me,” there needs to be at least one more word and Wanda struggles to pick it out. “Now.”  The command works, three large strides and his hand cups the back of her head as he pushes her into the mattress, body pressed against hers while their lips meet in a frenzy.  Wanda knows he’ll pull back soon, reverently and slowly kissing her body but she really can’t wait, and so her hands take the initiative, running quickly along his skin, skimming the seams of vibranium until her fingers hook into the waistband of the swimsuit that started it all.  “Little help here, Mr. Maximoff.” The tingle of the shifting molecules always makes her sigh, and she crushes her lips to his as he pushes up her dress. 

  
  
  


She awakes the next morning to the aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg, a sure sign that the space next to her is empty, Vision concocting some sort of food to entice her out of the spacious bed. And, as always, it works, Wanda sitting up, hands working out the twists in the sheet so she can move from the bed. “Good morning, Wanda.” His voice catches her off guard, sheet dropping in surprise at Vision’s head peering at her through the wall. “Tea is next to you and I will be back with breakfast.” Just as quickly, he is gone, and Wanda lifts the comforter in an attempt to find her clothes until she remembers that their teammates aren’t here. Which means there is no chance of Natasha bursting through the door, annoyingly innocent look on her face as she informs them of an impromptu training, or Steve’s voice echoing in her earpiece about convening for the morning run. 

With a pleased grin flitting across her lips, Wanda pulls the comforter up, rearranging the pillows behind her so that she can sit more comfortably. When Vision walks through the door, her lips curve so much that her cheeks hurt, never believing she would see Vision shirtless and wearing sweatpants at any point in her lifetime. “Morning, M-” Wanda catches herself about to say Mr. Maximoff, surprised at how easily it came to mind and even more surprised that it's not thought of in relation to his alter-ego from the night before. Carefully she rounds out her greeting with the equally uncommon, “my darling.” An adorable, confused and yet pleased half smile overtakes his mouth, and she’s certain it won’t be the last time she calls him that, far too enamored with the result. “You look comfy.”

“Oh,” Vision carefully sets a wooden tray on her lap, ensuring the legs are resting on either side of her hips, finishing the maneuver with a brush of his lips against her forehead. “Yes, you have often, admittedly while drunk, bemoaned my perennial state of formal dress, so I determined to experiment with loungewear while we are absent our teammates.” 

Her eyes follow along as he makes a concerted effort to walk (not phase) all the way around the bed, stopping briefly to draw the curtains open on the glass door that leads to the patio overlooking the mountains, before sliding under the covers next to her “And?” 

A content smile coupled with the weight of his arm resting along her shoulders immediately relaxes her. The thrill of his bare skin against her own and the brush of his fingers on her cheek never growing old. “To be honest, I quite enjoy the sweatpants.” 

“Good, you pull them off surprisingly well. Just don’t wear a sweater with them, please.”  The mock offense on his face makes her laugh. 

They sit in silence while she eats, his eyes drawn towards the mountain vista out the windows which allows Wanda ample opportunity to take in the difference in his demeanor. Vision is inherently a calm and collected, well spoken man. But right now he seems truly content, not having to force himself to be the beacon of serenity amidst the large personalities of the compound or the chaos of a mission. He's still impeccably spoken and logical but a variant softness to his behavior seems to indicate how at ease he is with a domestic, quieter life. And, if pushed to admit it, she finds herself reassured by this, knowing that maybe one day, far far down the line, an Avenger’s lifestyle won't be suitable or desirable for her anymore, and when that day comes, she realizes that she wants him still happy and by her side. When he turns back to check on her, Wanda smiles, unashamed at being caught staring.

“So what’s on the docket for today?”

Vision fingers rest lazily along her shoulder, knuckles bending and straightening as he talks. “There are three potential options. First, we are located 100 yards from a very well regarded hiking trail. It is has been praised for the variety of flora and fauna, in particular the bird watching community lauds it as one of the most exhilarating hikes in the area.”

“And the bird watching community is who I always turn to for excitement.” 

Vision comes ever so close to rolling his eyes, something Wanda has been attempting to procure from him for months, curious if he would give in to such a dismissive motion. “They have never led me astray.” And she laughs because even he can’t stop from smirking. “Second, I packed a plethora of games, so we could relax either on the porch or in front of the fire while we play.”

“And third?”

Though he doesn’t blush, the downturn of his eyes and a slight tuck of his chin always lets her know that he’s nervous about his next words. “The bed is quite luxurious and we have no potential distractions nor time constraints.” 

All tempting options, but one far more tempting than the others. “I say we start with option three, since we’re already in bed, and then move on to the other ones.”

“An excellent recommendation,” he leans over to place a soft, prolonged kiss on her bare shoulder, the remaining part of his sentence vibrating against her skin, “we shall commence with it after you finish eating.” 

The tray rises off the bed, a pulsating red cloud carrying it to the dresser against the wall and Wanda turns on her side, drawing a finger down his chest. “Oh, I’m done.”  

  
  
  


The only request Vision had for their weekend was to stargaze, Wanda adding in the hot tub element. Which is why after a distractingly lazy day, given they only left the bed three times total, Wanda makes the executive decision to force Vision out of the bed and to the hot tub to get it ready. 

She can hear the bubbling water through the open door, a brief smile at the thought of Vision waiting for her, but then it falls, lips dropping just enough to form a frown. There is always a distinct sorrow to the final day of a vacation, a clash between relishing the last moments of alone time while also balancing the ability to get back into a working mindset. But this time she finds it to be harder, not sure she’s willing to let go just yet. A shake of her head, ponytail whipping back and forth along her neck, erases the irrational longing. No matter how serene this glimpse of domestic bliss, she is fairly confident they’d grow tired of it, the exhilaration of missions and saving the world just too tempting. Maybe. 

When she finally steps onto the patio her eyes immediately shift up, lips parting at the shimmering brilliance of millions of stars, the hazy clouds of the Milky Way forming a stripe across the sky. Vision, was definitely right in his insistence they come this far north into the mountains. With his name fresh in her thoughts, she turns her gaze towards the hot tub, grinning at his arms spread out to their furthest reaches along the edge of the tub, body slouching into the water, and head leaned back. Briefly she considers not acting on impulse, but figures she might as well have just a bit more fun before they leave this place behind. “Vision Maximoff!” 

Vision bolts up, muscles tensing until he sees her, wide-eyed surprise quickly replaced with mirth. “Wanda, I was just about to come find you.”

“Is that how you greet the Sokovian vixen who has alluded capture for this long, Mr. Maximoff?” And his eyes widen again, bouncing back and forth as he processes her words, mouth eventually opening in an Oh of comprehension. “Are you just going to sit there?”

“I was intending to remain seated...should I stand?” Wanda can't help the laugh that erupts from her lungs as he shifts uneasily in the water. 

“I'll strike a deal with you,” to which he shrugs his shoulders, nodding for her to continue, “I really just want you to stand up real slow, and then we can drop the whole thing and just be us.”

“Deal.” Wanda grins, arms crossing as she waits, anticipation building so that when he moves his hands down against the seat, her body trembles slightly. At a deliberately snail-like pace he pushes his arms down, biceps expanding, creating a route of tension where skin meets vibranium, and slowly he stands up. The water dripping off him, rivulets dancing down his body, looks even more amazing than she imagined it would especially with his swimsuit from the day before enhancing the experience. “Was that, um, sufficient?” And her trance is broken when he nervously shuffles, right hand coming up to grab his left arm. 

“Yeah, you're good. Thanks.” Wanda unties her robe, allowing it to cascade into a heap on the ground as she walks towards the hot tub, not missing the drop of his jaw and the fact that his eyes remain glued to her every move. 

“I,” another shuffle of uncertainty moves him closer to the stairs, hand shaking slightly as he helps her into the hot tub. “I thought you went with the red suit.”

“And pass up buying something that made you lose control of your density and drop through dressing room floor?” With a gentle nudge to his shoulder, Vision sits back down, hands running along her thighs as he directs her into the water. “I went back the next day to get this one.”  A soft “good” is his only response before he leans in to kiss her. What she assumed would be a simple peck turns into an unwavering, gentle pressure with just the slightest movement of his lower lip. When he pulls back, it is immediately followed by a tilt of his chin and a fond kiss to her forehead. “Shall we?” A splash of water precedes the wave of his hand towards the sky.

“We shall.” Wanda wraps her arms around his neck, guiding his body to lay back into hers. As she brushes a kiss to the top of his head, Wanda can't control the words from invading her thoughts, Mr. Maximoff. But it is not in conjunction with the international man of mystery, no, Vision in a tux could maybe pull that persona off. But Vision in a tiny swimsuit, flabbergasted and fumbling through his words, though still incredibly sexy, is not suave enough for such a role. Now, Mr. Maximoff, the dashingly handsome, caring, and devoted life partner? That is a role she thinks he will excel at playing.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!!
> 
> The story was loosely inspired by this comic (you're welcome, if you've yet to see it): http://uchidachi.tumblr.com/post/85781110808/uchidachi-wanda-visions-honeymoon-avengers
> 
> Also, thanks to the ever convincing Anya, I may be writing a separate, longer story next. But don't worry, I'm not abandoning this one and will be back once I get the chance.


	14. It's About Thyme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A horticultural adventure leads to a long-awaited confession.

It all started with a simple herb garden on the wall, located to the southwest of the kitchen on a bare stretch of space that was determined to collect the second most sunlight throughout the day.

Wanda listened for weeks as Vision talked through the pros and cons of the containers (did they buy from an eco-friendly company online or go cheaper and build their own?), the herbs they wished to grow (“I have gathered from the gardening community that Oregano insists on inordinate amounts of sunlight”), whether they used hydroponics or soil (a choice Wanda wasn’t aware existed) and where in the compound this experiment should be placed (Vision had determined a window only he could reach gathered the most sun, and Wanda found herself having to point out, quite frequently, the logic of a garden near the kitchen). In the end they called upon Clint to help construct the apparatus and Wanda sat with Vision for an afternoon filling mason jars with fresh dirt and seeds. 

Then she waited, watching as Vision dutifully watered the plants, giving him questionable glances the few times she found a radio emitting classical music next to the garden, rejoicing with him when the first sprouts came through, and happily eating the inaugural meal of spaghetti made with the the sun-loving oregano, parsley, and basil. 

But there was a con they had overlooked in the strategizing of their garden. “Wanda?”

“Yeah, Vizh?”

There is a silence in the air as he contemplates, thoughts forming a bubble of apprehension until it is so full it has to burst. “Where is the basil?”

Wanda scrunches her nose, unsure what he’s talking about, and so she places her book down, trailing her hand along the back of the couch until she reaches where he stands with a small watering can in hand. He’s correct, their feisty little basil plant (a horrifying experience early on in its life -- the jar dropping from a malfunctioning holder -- endeared the plant to Vision more than any of the others) is merely a stem. “Well, um,” Wanda checks on the other plants, illogically hoping the basil had gotten lonely and wandered into another enclosure, “maybe someone used it?” 

“Yes, that is logical,” the mournful whisper draws her arm up, hand rubbing his shoulders in a soothing, circular pattern. 

Gently she turns his body towards her, heart still insisting on tap-dancing every time she stares into his blue, swirling eyes, and brings a hand to his face. With a deliberately slow and easy pace she traces the lines around his mouth, attempting a comforting smile. “You do know it grows back right?”

Embarrassment dilates his pupils, mouth quirking up an infinitesimal amount as he glances to the side then back at her. “I am aware, I simply,” Wanda can feel the ordered pattern of his mind work through the illogical emotional response, tucking away unneeded information to make way for more rational explanations, “was intending to surprise you with a pesto tonight.”

“Well,” she rises up onto the tips of her toes, thumb still stroking his face, and presses her lips softly against his, “perhaps another night.” 

  
  


The basil is only the first victim, the draw of fresh herbs too strong of a temptation to the other cooks in the compound, and so Vision resolves to remedy the situation once spring dawns. Their room begins to fill up with drawings and diagrams transforming the roof of the compound into a complex, multi-site garden. The herbs needing moist soil relegated to one container, those in need of moderately moist soil another, and those that require barely any water to yet another. Even within each container he has labeled exactly which herbs should be located where, notes of the tangled relationships they might form written in his extraordinarily legible handwriting. All of it is adorable though she'd like to go at least one day where they speak of more than just plants. 

But that is simply Vision.

There is a singularity in the way he acts, utterly devoted to one task at a time.  All the memories and thoughts of when she's his focus sends shivers down her spine. Wanda is fairly certain of all of them, Vision would be the most capable at multi-tasking and yet he chooses to focus exclusively on whatever is garnering his attention. At the moment his eyes remain fixed on the black soil rising up around his fingers as he digs a hole in their new outdoor, rooftop garden. The smell of peat permeates the air, intermingling with the earthy, distinct aroma of dirt and roots. If Wanda closes her eyes she is easily transported back to lazy afternoons in the backyard, kneeling beside her mother, wrist deep in the sun warmed soil. Her mother always explained the purpose of the plants as she let Wanda settle them into their homes. 

Wanda drops down next to him, leaning over to grab a plant and examining it. “Did you know,” carefully she hands it to him, purposefully brushing her fingers along his in the exchange which elicits the bashful smile she hoped for, “Romans believed eating thyme before a meal protected them from poison? Some even took baths infused with thyme to try and stop the spread of poison.”

A tilt of his head acknowledges the statement, hands scooping the soil back over the roots of the plant. “The Romans also believed it a sign of courage and bravery.” Vision picks up a sprig that had fallen off in the transfer and turns to hand it to her. “Soldiers would exchange it as a show of respect.” 

With a quick peck to her cheek and an oddly nervous smile he returns his attention to the plants and Wanda watches mesmerized as his fingers form canals in the soil. She brushes his mind, contentment surging at the joy that oscillates in his head at the feel of the soil breaking against his skin. Wanda inspects the sprig of thyme, eyes bouncing between it and the way the sunlight dances along the vibranium plates on his head, and almost musters the courage she needs. But then he moves on to the basil, tenderly treating it with respect and she determines to wait. “My mother loved basil.”

“She sounds like an exceedingly intelligent woman.”

For all the joy his presence brings, effervescent and warming, he still is the leading cause of her eyes rolling. Her mother always warned her about rolling her eyes and getting them stuck in an endless rotation, but that's not terribly concerning anymore. “No need to be a brownnoser, Vizh. What she loved even more was the fact that physicians in medieval times hated it so much because they believed by simply smelling it you'd get a scorpion in your head.” 

Vision halts the process of covering the roots, hands frozen as a smile overtakes his entire body. “I did not know that.” Pride blooms in her chest at the admission. “It is fascinating, in other regions it has a prominently more positive history.”

“Like what?”

“In the Hindu religion basil was considered sacred to the gods. In some Middle Eastern cultures it was laid on burial grounds as a sign of devotion and,” Vision hesitates, fingers playing with the leaves of the plant as his body half turns towards her, eyes spinning faster as he utters the last word, “love.”

Wanda glances at the thyme in her hands but can't stop her mouth from ruining the moment. “Well, it's still possible the people died of scorpions in their head and the basil on the grave is just to keep feeding it so it doesn't claim another victim.”

He smirks at her, but she does not miss the scintilla of disappointment in his eyes.

 

Once the garden is established they never run out of basil, though Sam (now identified as the original basil thief) attempts to use it all, relishing the herb garden almost as much as Vision. It’s not uncommon for her to locate both men on the roof, discussing the weather and its effects on the health of the plants.   
  


 

Wanda finds Vision in the kitchen, a bowl of sifted flour to his right and a cutting board in front of him covered in sprigs of thyme and cut up basil. “What’re you making?”

“I am attempting to craft thyme dumplings with a basil pesto.”

“I finally get the promised pesto?” All it takes is a hand to his arm to arrest his attention, heart fluttering at the undivided focus and the subtle shift in his body that brings their mouths in contact. Her senses are overwhelmed by him, always, the smooth curve of his lips, the ridges on his skin under her palm, and the woody waft of thyme and rosemary, the sweetness of basil, and the bite of mint that seems to cling to him in place of his prior scent of cleanliness with an underlying hint of alloy.  When he pulls away, moving his attention back to the cutting board, her body leans towards him, craving his touch, and so she allows her hand to trail along his back, not wanting to distract him too much. “How’s it going?”

She watches him pick up a sprig of thyme, rotating it left and right as he studies it. “I am unsure the most efficient method for removing the leaves, as Sam informed me the stem is not to be eaten.”

“Here,” Wanda holds out her hand, smiling up at him when he relinquishes the thyme. “My father was always in charge of pruning the herbs.” The heat of his gaze builds a fire in her cheeks, but she ignores it, instead lifting the stem up to him. “He always said to first turn it upside down,” she flips it over so that the leaves are pointing downwards. “Then you,” delicately she grips the bottom of the stem, moving her other hand right above it and placing her fingers underneath the first bunch of leaves, “just slide your fingers up.” One swift movement and her thumb and index finger travel up the stem, collecting the leaves along the way. “Voila.” 

Amazement flickers in Vision’s eyes, irises rotating clockwise as he replays her actions in his mind. He picks up another sprig, following her directions, turning it upside down and then mirroring her grip, one hand holding tightly to the bottom, and the other pinching the stem. Slowly he slides his hand up the stem but immediately breaks it. Wanda bites her lip to keep from laughing at the intense furrow of his brow and the droop of his mouth as he studies the thyme, dropping the broken end and starting over. The second, third, fourth, and fifth time he attempts to remove the leaves he repeats the mistake of breaking it. 

“You need to be gentle.” 

“I am trying.”

She watches as he mangles another one, frustration manifesting on his face and in the tenseness of his muscles, before intervening. “Alright, how about I just,” Wanda places her hands over his, allowing him to be the one touching the thyme. Immediately she can sense his grip is too tight, “Loosen up your top fingers,” without hesitation he obeys, “yeah perfect. Okay so now let’s just slide on up.” Together their hands move, Wanda controlling the speed of his movements, and pride engulfs her when she sees the collection of leaves between his fingers and the beaming smile on his face. 

“Thank you.” 

What she intends to say is  _ No problem _ or  _ anytime _ , but the genuine smile of gratitude on his lips and the singular way he focuses on her, eyes never wavering, never blinking, and the closeness of his body, and sight of his sweater despite it being spring, and the realization that the meal was planned in the ever-so-Vision way of putting his feelings and respect for her on a plate changes her response. “I love you, Vision.”  


Surprise widens his eyes, yet his mind remains calm, a deep understanding that this is not new information, unspoken up until this point, but generally assumed as existing based on all collected evidence. “I love you too, Wanda Maximoff.”  His hand moves to grip her waist, smearing leaves into her dress, and she remembers this moment for the rest of her life, the aroma of thyme and the blissful, gentle way he kisses her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have missed this series so much. I'm going to do my best to bounce between this and What to Expect until that one is done because it's been too long away from this one. 
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoyed this!


	15. An Uneasy Alliance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Vision gets his mind wiped on a mission, Wanda finds herself reluctantly working with Tony to figure out how to fix the problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has been sitting half-finished in my drafts for about 3 months now. Tony is one of the hardest characters (for me anyway) to write and I really wanted to explore his relationship with Wanda. Hopefully they're both in character! Also, warning, slightly more language than usual in this one.
> 
> As always, hope you enjoy!

Wanda can’t seem to stop her eyes from traveling to the left, trailing along the angles of his body as he floats near the window, hand raised and eyes forward. It's reminiscent of his first actions upon being created, the mesmerizing way he simply hovered, the stillness of the night skyline mirroring his calm. Except that time his muscles were looser, mind blindingly bright with awe and curiosity. Now she flinches at the coldness each time she tentatively reaches out towards his consciousness.

Vision turns his head and makes eye contact, her own eyes darting back down to her tangled, trembling fingers. It’s not just his mind that’s different, the coldness in his bright blue, swirling eyes spreads a flurry of anxiety prickling down her limbs and embedding deep within her heart. “Miss…” the tightly controlled cadence of his voice causes her to cringe, “Maximoff, was it?”

“Yes, but you can call me Wanda.”  The silence forces her to look up and meet his cold and calculating gaze, her words seeming to register with him as his irises click once counterclockwise. “What do you want?”

At this point she’d usually expect his mouth to pinch into a pucker of concern, contemplating the best way to phrase his words, but instead his features are still minus one more click of his irises. “You are staring at me.”

“Sorry.” And it hurts too much to remain in his presence, to feel the pushback of his mind against hers when she reaches out. “Excuse me.”  Wanda stands, taking a wider arc than necessary to avoid touching him, and briskly walks through the hallways, ducking out of view of any of her teammates so they cannot track her. Eventually she finds herself on the roof, feet carrying her to the wooden porch swing Vision installed about a month ago, placed perfectly to allow the best view of the garden. Wanda sits, legs bent and toes barely skimming the ground, just enough that she can push every so often to continue the momentum of the swing. It’s only now that she allows herself to cry, breath coming out in shuddering whispers as she clutches her sweatshirt tighter to her body.

Footsteps to her right halt her tears, hands erupting in red as she squints into the darkness.  The scarlet mists fade once she identifies the cocky, though hesitant gait of the last person she wants to talk to right now. “What do you want?”

He raises his hands as he approaches, the slant of his mouth and touch of (oddly satisfying) terror in his eyes clearly conveying his message, but since it’s Tony, he still insists on speaking as well. “I come in peace.”

“What do you want?”

Instead of being helpful and answering, Tony stops at the swing, glancing down at her with pity, which only leads to a slow build up of rage within her veins. He sits next to her, hands slapping against his thighs as he turns his eyes towards the sky, then back to his legs, out to look at the garden, and then he shifts his body enough to somewhat face her. “I just wanted to, huh,” slowly he traces his fingers over the engraved metal plaque on the top board of the swing _In Memory of Pietro Maximoff_. “Your brother,” he never says his name, refuses to acknowledge that the other half of her soul had a unique identity, “never left the impression of wanting to sit and smell the, what is that,” Tony lifts his hand, waving it in front of his nose to draw in the smells, “is that thyme?”

“Yes, it’s thyme.”

“Yeah, never pegged him for such quiet activities.”

Wanda folds her arms over her chest, head leaning back and body slouching until her neck is bent enough to rest her skull against the swing and bring her eyes in contact with the glittering night sky. “Vizh wanted to give me a quiet space for remembrance.”

“That’s um,” the smack of his lips echoes around them, the garden adding a layer of insulation against all other noise, “sweet, I guess, in a weirdly sentimental way for a, you know…”

“If you dare call him a robot right now I will throw you off the roof and claim it was an accident.”

Silence resettles around them. A nervous twitching develops in his right foot and a tapping of his fingers against thigh the longer they don’t talk. “Listen, Wanda-”

A deep exhale rolls from her lungs and out between her parted lips. “Just save it please, I’ve heard enough  ‘It’ll be okays,’ ‘I’m sure it’s just temporarys’ ‘Maybe he’ll--’”

“Maybe he’ll come to love you again.” The words hang in the air for barely a second before she gasps and her hand erupts in a threatening scarlet, daring him to continue. “Too far, too far, I get it, put away the,” he waves his hands in front of him, mimicking poorly the movement of her body when she uses her powers. “I’m not here to say that to you, in case you were wondering.”

“Then what do you want?”

“Listen, I get it.” Wanda glares over her shoulder at him, never asking nor desiring this attempt at sympathy, knowing full well that somehow, even though she has no proof, Tony is probably the impetus for all of her misery, yet again. Which is unfair, most likely, as they have come to a mutual understanding (at the gentle insistence of Vision) that Tony is not fully to blame for her misfortunes, but still, she harbors a base level, unconscious response to immediately blame him for anything that goes wrong in his presence. Tony sighs, shoulders dropping and his carefree mask replaced by a harrowing emptiness, “To hear that voice but,” another sigh and he finally raises his head enough to make eye contact, “not recognize it. I get it, okay?”

His words hit her hard enough to knock the air from her lungs, the tinge of despair in the quiver of his voice resonating with the anguish twisting around her heart, squeezing it tighter and tighter the more she imagines the cold, empty eyes of the man she loves. “How do you deal with it?”

“Lots of alcohol.”

Wanda hates the fact that she laughs at the comment, can’t stop her eyes from rolling at the way Tony expertly shatters the atmosphere of his previous confession. “You offering?”

A pleased grin spreads across his face and Wanda is fairly certain she’s going to regret this. “Yeah, I’ve got the good stuff down in my lab.” Tony stands up quickly from the bench, hands naturally finding their way into his pockets as he stretches his shoulders out in a nonchalant, fairly arrogant way that only a Stark could pull off. “Plus, I had them deliver the cube your boyfriend fondled so we can study it further.”

“I already regret this.”

“Good,” he gives her a self-assured wink, “that’s how the best nights always start.”

 

The lab is a mess, which she finds curious given that Stark is rarely at the compound and the day before she vividly remembers walking down this hallway (on her way to visit Vision and Helen) and being able to see the tops of the tables. But now there are papers strewn everywhere, bits and pieces of wire and metal littering the floor, books and electronics propped up in seemingly erratic ways. “You’re a slob.”

“I’m a genius, they go hand in hand.” She’s definitely going to regret this, but her body refuses to follow the warnings being sent out in frenzied electrical impulses from her brain, eyes locking onto an iridescent, roughly microwave sized cube floating in a suspended field of blue walls in the middle of the lab. Slowly she approaches it, bending to study the underside of the cube and confirming it is exactly the same as the top and the sides. It’s honestly beautiful, a subtle pulsing of light sending colors licking across the surface and then dissipating in the air. The energy it emits is captivating, a yearning growing in her mind the longer she stares at it. “Don’t touch it!”

Wanda freezes, eyes widening at the realization that her hand is raised, finger mere inches away from the cube. “I-what, what is it?”

The clink of ice against glass gives her a new stimulus to distract her from the pull of the cube, watching as Tony pours out two glasses of honey colored bliss. “No idea, just know that your boyfriend touched it and now he, well, you know.” The glass is pressed into her hand and she brings it up, sniffing the liquid and relishing the way it burns her nose.  “I think it’s sentient, maybe, seems to operate on some neural wavelength that elicits a need in other sentient beings to touch it. Kind of like moths to a light.  Though it does not like being poked and prodded.” To demonstrate his conclusion, Tony picks up a metal rod and thrusts it at the cube. A flare of blindingly white light creates a shield and knocks the metal rod to the ground. “Not a happy little cube, that’s for sure.”

“I’d be upset if you poked me with a metal rod as well.”

“Touché.”

Wanda steps back from the cube, moving to lean against the least messy table, sipping her scotch as she watches Tony run calculations on the cube. “What happened, on the mission, exactly?”

He briefly makes eye contact with her before turning back to the computer. “No one’s told you?”

“Nat explained that you all went to check on the warehouse, how employees kept disappearing and then coming back without memories. But as to what happened with Vision, it’s my understanding you were the only one in the room with him.”

The way his body stops moving, the constant nervous energy of his mind quieting to no more than a whisper, confirms her suspicions. “I mean, we found it and then you know he got curious and,” Tony reaches towards the cube and then sticks his tongue out and makes a gurgling sound of mock electrocution.

“That doesn’t sound like Vision.”

“You almost touched it.”

“Tony-” the warning in her voice is clear, at least she believes so as his muscles tense and fingers slow on the keyboard. “Vision is way too logical to decide - hey, look at this shiny cube, I must touch it!”

A deep sigh transforms into a long, drawn out raspberry, the sound bouncing off every metal surface. “Well,” the word lasts several seconds, and ends with a smack of his lips, “I may have dared him to touch it.”

And the penny she knew all along to be in the air, drops. “You asshole.”

“Hey, he’s still an autonomous, free-thinking, intelligent guy, he could have turned down the dare.”

Wanda puts the scotch down, crossing her arms as she shakes her head, mouth racing downward into a scowl at the cluelessness of the idiot in front of her. “Do you realize how hard he’s tried to form some sort of relationship with you?”

“We have a relationship of sorts.”

Now she scoffs, pushing away from the table to shrink the distance between them. “You avoid him, keep him at arm’s reach at all times, god Tony, he just wants your approval and then you pull stupid shit like this.”

“Hey,” Tony abandons the computer, finger raised, jabbing in emphasis with each of his words, “it’s not that easy, okay? I can’t,” a frustrated huff breaks up his words, “seem to separate him from what he was before.” Briefly she feels an apologetic surge, remembering his confession on  the roof, but then he keeps talking and any goodwill towards him flees far, far away,”Plus, you can’t pin this on me, I’m well aware he was distracted today because you two got into a fight this morning. That he did tell me about. So listen, I’m not going to keep being the maniacal, monocle wearing, mustache twirling supervillain of your life, okay?”

“Oh come on, Tony,” she can feel the rush of her powers in her veins, the warmth of the energy filling her eyes and hands, “if you had just kept your self-indulgent unprofessional goading to yourself maybe Vision would still have memories and emotions. Not only that but-”

“Shut up.”

Red bursts from her hands, forming a cloud that expands all the way to her elbows. “Excuse me?”

Tony approaches her, hands raised yet again in a sign of surrender before laying them on her shoulders and turning her towards the cube which is pulsing with a cerulean light. “I think we’re turning it on.”

“Can you ever not be disgusting?”

“Nope.” He steps away from her, circling the cube with inquisitive eyes, hesitantly picking up another metal rod, but this time affixing a quarter-sized sensor to the end of it. With only a slight pause, Tony shoves the sensor into the cube and then curses, dropping the metal rod where it lays smoking ominously on the ground. “Shit, shit, shit, I know, I know, stop poking the cube thingy, it does not like it.”

Wanda is confident they’ll never figure out what happened to Vision or how to fix him if all they’re going to do is keep prodding needlessly at the cube. So she makes a decision, one that she isn’t certain is correct but when science fails (even though Vision would glare at her for such a thought) the mystical has to come in, and so she steps closer to the cube and raises her hands, scarlet energy undulating through the air as she connects with the object. It is...different. There is, as Tony surmised, a sentience to the cube, a frenetic, confusing rush of non-stop information that twirls and mixes, forming whirlpools throughout that draws in conflicting emotions and thoughts. She flicks her pinky, throwing a tendril of power into one of the whirlpools and then she gasps as she feels distinct strings of thoughts swirl around each other. The cube is not simply sentient, it seems to be harboring far more than one mind inside itself. A sharp, sudden pain behind her eyes causes her to wince, the ease that she had entering the cube starting to waver as she struggles to maintain contact. Right before she is shoved out, before her powers are severed from the iridescent object, she feels a desperate, familiar touch of gold.

Wanda falls to the ground, breath heaving and hands trembling. “Vision’s in there.”

 

“So,” two hours later and they are no further, in fact, they may be moving backwards, the cube recently developing a violet shield that stops both her powers and Tony’s continued insistence on poking it with metal rods. Additionally, about an hour ago, they finished the bottle of scotch which greatly hindered Wanda’s ability to control her powers and meant that Tony couldn’t intelligently decipher any of the computer read outs. “I’ve been thinking.”  

Wanda side-eyes him from where she’s working on (and failing at) constructing new formations with her powers, seeing if there might be some answer on how to penetrate the new shield. “That’s always dangerous.”

He shrugs off her words with a, “What can I say, I live on the edge,” before continuing, turning his body to fully face her which means she finds herself mirroring his movements until they’re staring at each other over the cube. “Two thoughts. One, I really think I should touch the cube, it’s so sparkly.”

“Don’t touch the cube,” a flicker of red in her eyes and her arms crossing stop him from moving closer to the cube, “If you do, I might just leave you in there.”

Tony nods, a causal hand wave and a step back towards the computer calming the tension in the air slightly. “Fair enough. Thought two: If we figure this out,” he pauses, hand running through his hair and a minuscule shrug of his shoulders, “I guess I can try to talk to him more.” This is not the line of thinking she anticipated, having hoped he figured out a solution instead of spending the past hours doing introspective soul-searching. “Thought two point one. Given my new vim for being a father,” he almost chokes on the word, revulsed at the thought of being considered such a thing,  "what, young lady, are your intentions towards my son? You do know he’s technically a toddler, right?”

With an annoyed sigh she walks towards the cube, hands hovering just outside the edges of the shield as she sends scarlet energy into it. “Seriously?”

His response exaggerates each syllable of the word, “Uh-tter-ly.”

If he wasn’t such an insistent, demanding person she’d avoid the question, but the seriousness in his scotch-clouded eyes makes her go against her instincts.  Now that she thinks about it, it’s hard to put into words her intentions, wanting to give enough information to satiate Tony’s new curiosity while at the same time not enough that she welcomes him with open arms into the most precious, closely guarded aspect of her life. “Well,” the shield around the cube wavers slightly with the next surge of power she sends at it, a smile parting her lips at the small but promising step, “I love him,” which is met with an overly dramatic _awww_ and Tony clutching at his heart. “And have every intention of being with him for, well,” her hands stop moving, thoughts circling around the sureness of emotions and the rightness of the realization that there really is no time limit she can think of, “forever, really.” The admittance cracks the wall around her heart just enough that she even finds herself offering up information not even Vision is aware of, “I’ve actually been trying to buy us a house but-.”

“How’s the sex?”

And Tony’s unmatched ability to ruin every single moment strikes again, the annoyed rotation of her eyes and the glare she levels at him not seeming to register with him that this crosses the line. “I’m not answering that.”

Tony winces, “That bad, huh? I’ll give him some pointers later, have a nice father-son moment, you know.”

Wanda is well aware this falls right in line with his typical goading, that this is exactly what caused Vision to touch the cube in the first place, and she finds herself just as incapable of remaining impervious to the prodding. “It’s really good, far better than you could imagine, no need to introduce your sleaziness into it.”

The pride in his step at getting the answer infuriates her, his cockiness growing until it fills the room to the point of being stifling. As he talks the cube’s walls fall and her powers immediately connect with the flurry of minds inside.“Give me details, does he use his density manipulation, do you use your little witchy powers-”

“Shut up.” He stops talking and the cube shoves her out again. “I was lying, keep being an arrogant ass.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know that I am not an ass. Now the pointers I’d give him, just so you know and can think of me when things are going amazingly well-- wait, is it letting you in?!” Tony slides up next to her, eyes never leaving the cube as she twists her scarlet tendrils inside, searching for the serenity of Vision’s mind, the gentle waves of pure calm from his orderly and deeply logical thoughts. With a squint and a predatory smirk he bends closer to the cube. “So you like me being an arrogant ass huh, little cubey? Yeah, I can feel you reaching for my mind.”  Wanda has to actively not give in to her repulsion and blast Tony with her powers, focusing exclusively on rescuing what doesn’t belong to this cube. “Let me tell you all the things our minds could do together.”

Wanda is close, can sense the ripples of golden calm, but can also feel the cube’s defenses coming back, tightening around her and cutting off the tertiary streams branching from her main power source, “Keep talking.”

“My mind, little cubey, is vast, greatest mind known to man today, maybe of all time. You give us that boring, prude, completely unexciting synthetic mind that you took earlier and maybe,” Tony places his face right next to the cube, “I’ll let you,” the next words are slurred and whispered in a lewd, suggestive tone, “tango with my ginormous mind.”  

The promise seems to be enough as Wanda wraps her powers around Vision’s mind, clenching her fingers tightly, nails digging into her palms as she yanks it out of the cube, his mind manifesting as a golden orb hovering in front of her. “Got it!”

Tony jumps back, a quick shake of his head clearing his mind from the cube’s influence, “Seriously?”

“Look.”

He joins her in staring at the pulsing orb then turns towards the cube which is sending out flares of angry violet light. “So,” he pivots back towards her,  ignoring the cube and what they do with the thing now. “Any idea how to get that back to him?”

“No.”

“I vote that we bring him down here and you slap his sense right back into him, teach him it’s not okay to fondle cubes when you’re not around.”

The first comment is fair, the second seems excessive. “I’m not going to slap him.”

“But it’d be so dramatic.”

Wanda does agree with calling Vision down to the lab, relenting and letting Tony send a sing-song message through the system of _Vision, come down and play,_ punctuated by him tapping the rhythm of the words on the lab table with the empty scotch bottle.

While they wait for him to arrive, Wanda cradles the golden orb in her hand, content at the warmth emanating from it and the overwhelming peace of his mind in such a concentrated form. Less than five minutes later Vision phases through the wall of the lab, startling Tony, head cocked to the side in what might be confusion but his eyes remain neutral and distant, body clearly attempting to show human reactions without understanding why . “Mister Stark, Miss. Maximoff.”

“Hey son, Wanda’s got something for you but first,” Tony raises his arm to stop her from getting too close, throwing devious smile in her direction. “What do you think of Wanda, by the way, is she,” he wraps an arm around Vision’s shoulders, pulling him down into a conspiratorial hug, “sexy? Do you,” Tony uses his other hand to turn Vision’s face until he is staring her in the eyes, “want to do unspeakable things to her?”

Vision, or more accurately the husk of Vision, continues to stare at her, eyes squinting slightly in thought before answering in a stilted, inflectionless voice. “By my calculations and using comparisons from the internet Miss Maximoff is attractive, though not dressed in any way that maps onto the concept of sexy based on the available data.” Tony smirks at her, stepping away and miming at her to slap Vision. “I am uncertain what you mean by unspeakable things, the closest approximation from questionable sources seems to imply sexual intercourse of some kind, but I assure you that my existence is not meant for such human and abhorrently trivial things.”  

Later, when they relive this moment over a bottle of wine, Tony laughing with glee, Wanda will insist that the blame lies with the alcohol and the stress from the day.  Because when she hears him deny himself humanity, sees the unemotional way he assesses their potential relationship, it breeds in her an audacious anger that makes her really want to drive home the understanding of how unacceptable his actions have been, how much pain it has caused everyone. Mind clouded with anger and too much scotch, Wanda steps up to him, raising the hand that contains the golden orb and slaps Vision across the face, the sound joined by the loud _yes!_ coming from Tony.

“W..Wanda?”  The horror in his voice, the confusion spinning his irises in a dizzying non-stop pattern, and the way he reaches out tenderly to her confirms it worked. Wanda rushes towards Vision, throwing her arms around his neck, overjoyed when he encircles her with his own arms, crushing her body against his as she kisses him. “Wanda,” tentatively he parts from her, a hazy fear in his eyes and concern radiating clearly from his mind, “I have a multitude of questions.”

“You’re such an idiot.” His questions are not of any immediate concern to her right now as she pulls him back, capturing his lips, confirming the nightmare is over, “but I love you.”

“I love you as well, but-”

“Son,” Tony walks up next to them, hands in his pocket as he winks at Wanda and then gives a stern, no-nonsense glare to Vision, “I’d suggest you shut up, spend some quality,” quality is said with another wink and a slight nudge of Tony’s elbow into Vision’s side, “ time with Wanda here and we’ll explain everything tomorrow.”

As Tony slips out of the room, leaving the two of them alone, Wanda untangles from Vision’s embrace, stopping and turning towards him with one demand, “Vizh,” she points over towards the cube, “don’t you dare touch that thing.” A serious, so Vison-like nod confirms his intentions to follow her demand and Wanda steps out of the lab. “Tony.”  The man stops walking, glancing at her over his shoulder. “Thanks.”

“Eh, it was my fault anyway, need to clear up my own messes.”

Which she should deny in full, but can sense he wouldn’t believe her if she completely retracted her former accusations. “Maybe just partially to blame.” The half-cocked, sad arc of his smile maintains the layer of guilt that defines their relationship, the foundation they’ll have to build on going forward. “I know it's hard to hear his voice,” she watches Tony frown, eyes heavy with loss, “but I think you’ll regret it if you don’t try. You should join us for dinner soon.”

  
The corners of his mouth lift slightly, eyes rotating down towards the floor and then to her. “I need to go polish my monocle a bit more, maybe next week though.” Tony shrugs and then tilts his head towards the lab, “Stop talking to an arrogant ass and go enjoy having him back or else you’ll regret that. I’ll pick up the cube tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to do a call out for any prompts/stories/requests anyone might have for a story. I still have a decent list of my own story ideas but I've found writing requests to be some of the most fun stories to craft because it makes me think about things differently. So, if there is anything you'd like to see, let me know! It can be 1 word, 2 words, 3 words, a sentence, a paragraph, a picture, a song, a comic book panel, some other thing that I can't think of, anything really. :)
> 
> Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed!!


	16. To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda helps Vision experience sleep for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is based on a request from Jordan. I hope this fulfills it and is swoony enough :)
> 
> As always, hope you enjoy!

The room is dark, a humid breeze trickling in through the slightly ajar window stirring the curtains into a lazy tango. Vision realizes, as he watches the curtains dance, that his eyes are open and frowns. A quick glance down, as well as an inward check of their mental link, confirms Wanda is stirring from her sleep, the flow of electricity in her brain transitioning from the slow, peaceful theta waves to the far more excitable alpha waves. If Vision was a man who cursed he imagines right now, as he worriedly follows the ascent and descent of the swells clustering together with increased frequency, would be an ideal time for such an expletive.

 Wanda moves against him, fingers curling over his bicep as she snuggles her head deeper into his shoulder with an annoyed sigh. “Close your eyes, Vizh.”  

Instantly his eyelids clamp down, a rush of embarrassment racing into the tips of his fingers as they tighten on her waist. “My apologies.”

“Just,” her yawn pulls the air from above his skin, sending it back out in a hot cloud, “try, okay?”

“Of course.” Once the electric pulses of her mind even out again he settles into the pillow, eyes shut as he attempts to allow her full control over his consciousness. Which theoretically seemed far easier when they first discussed this experiment two weeks ago than it has turned out to be. Because now, as he feels his own brainwaves transition into the calmer theta waves he realizes, with slightly faster palpitations in his chest, that these waves are quite different from the ones he so commonly experiences when he meditates. The rhythm of her sleep is less controlled, wilder than the practiced ease he uses when he calms his thoughts every night. Wanda shifts again, hand falling to rest on his abdomen and he does his best to relinquish all control to her, embracing the feel of her muscles relaxing, breath slowing, and encouraging his eyes to roll in time with her own.  

Much like being drunk (an experience Wanda initiated as well using their neural link), he begins to feel his awareness dip, arms and legs growing heavy as he sinks into the mattress, the weight of Wanda’s body on him much more pronounced now than before. The rustle of the curtains fades to the background, now an ambiguous and amorphous noise that he can no longer pinpoint, consciousness lulled by the rolling ocean of theta waves. This aspect of sleep is peaceful, even the tiny, rebellious corner of his mind that refuses to surrender fully to Wanda’s control enjoys calculating the frequency of the spikes in the waves, mapping the mountainous spindles and the valleys of her k-complexes. His own meditative waves flirting quite easily with her slumber.

Then suddenly it all drops away and Vision finds his heart beating abnormally fast, lungs spasming as the disembodied sounds from before are strangled into silence and the world goes black. With a deep, desperate gasp he forces his eyes open, severing their mental connection as he sits up sending Wanda’s body tumbling to the bed. Shame at his actions mingles with the tremor of his fingers as he strives to settle his heaving chest into a more natural, steady breathing. An angry groan to his side intensifies the monstrous guilt that sits on his shoulders. “What the hell, Vision?”

“I-” by now he is out of excuses, each and every time they try this he breaks right at the emergence of the delta waves. For a time he insisted that perhaps his brain is simply not capable of experiencing the slowest brain waves, scientific research confirming delta waves to be a unique experience to sleep as compared to meditation and since he does not sleep the extrapolation seemed quite logical. Unfortunately Dr. Cho dismissed this claim when he approached her with the hypothesis, though Wanda is not aware of this tidbit quite yet, assuming she has not wrested it from his mind. So he finds himself faced with the dilemma of admitting the truth or finding another excuse.

Before he can decide, Wanda sits up, scootching her hips closer to him until their bodies are flush and her hand comes to lay on his chest, finger lazily tracing a circle around the island of vibranium on his sternum and her hair cascading over his back as she rests her head on his shoulder. “Do you,” the words slur together as her brain attempts to reorient to wakefulness, “actually want to do this?” 

Logically he knows he needs to simply tell her the truth but still Vision hesitates, focusing instead on calculating the exact velocity of her finger on his chest, attempting to calm his mind of the ripples of uncertainty with each circle of her finger. “I believe it is an intriguing inquiry.” 

“That’s,” her finger pokes the indent of skin between his pectoral vibranium plates, “not an answer to my question. So…” slowly her fingers walk up his chest, brushing up along his neck and chin until her palm lays flat against the curve of his face, “Please be honest, do you actually want to do this?”

“I do not know.”

A sleepy nod bumps against his jaw as she yawns once more against his skin. “Want to talk it out?”

His thoughts churn at the invitation, an immediate, unquestionable answer rising to the forefront of his mind and yet, for some reason he finds his mouth dancing around the admission. “I admit I am uncomfortable knowing my reaction time to any threats will be greatly reduced.”

Wanda pushes away from him, fingertips meeting in the middle of her hand and then exploding outwards, crafting an orb of scarlet that hovers just above their heads. This ominous luminescence allows him to take in the steady, disbelieving stare and the thin line of her mouth that curves just a tiny bit upwards at the edge, mirroring the quirk of her eyebrow. Vision has only been the recipient of this look twice before (both times preceding a disagreement), yet he knows it well as it is the same face she makes whenever Tony breathes. “Please,” the next words develop a sardonic twinge that is lessened slightly by her yawn, “my most valiant protector, how many intruders have you thwarted?”

There are several ways he can answer the question, all depending on the definition of intruder, and so he determines to aim for the most liberal interpretation of simply any individual attempting to impede her sleep. “I have redirected several of our teammates from unnecessary intrusions while you rest.” His voice starts strong with conviction but peters out to a whisper around _teammates_ , the last three words spoken so meekly he is unsure if she heard them.

Gently she cups his face, drawing it up until he meets her concerned eyes, an exasperated sigh stirring the air along his cheek. “Why can’t you just admit you’re scared?”

The words come out before he can even contemplate denying the assertion. “Because it is irrational.”

Laughter is an odd reaction, the effervescence of her chuckle sending mixed signals into his body, mind erupting with joy at the change in atmosphere but also embarrassed confusion that only serves to increase the thump of his heart. “Vizh,” Wanda brings her lips to his, the tingle of her toothpaste still present on her breath, the tips of her fingers flexing against his cheeks when his mouth responds to her gentle goading, “you’ve never slept before, it’s so,” another peck and demure grin begins to extinguish his fears, “normal to fear something new, it’s” and another kiss seals his fate of following her to the ends of the earth if she asked him do so right now, “pretty sexy too.”

The shift in her mood intoxicates him, muscles relaxing and his own movements becoming looser, bolder even, as he runs his hand along her thigh. “Perhaps instead of sleep, we could-” 

“Don’t you dare.” A playful finger prodding his chest throws his lips into a smirk, “fool me once, shame on you, fool me six times and I’m on to you, mister.” The impish gleam fades from her eyes as she brushes her fingers along his jawline, studying him with increased scrutiny and puckered lips. “Do you know why I want you to do this?”  

Vision thinks back to two weeks ago when Wanda first pitched the idea, the overwhelming curiosity and excitement rolling off her every word quite persuasive as she explained all the reasons it would be worth a shot. “I recall it being mentioned that sleep is a quintessential experience of humanity and you wished to aid me in understanding and appreciating the process.”

“I guess that’s true too,” which causes his head to tilt to the side, curious at the dismissive way she allows the key reason they discussed to fall away. “My favorite part of the day,” Wanda stops, a blush creeping into her cheeks as she glances away from him briefly. “I don’t know why it’s so hard to say this,” is accompanied by her hands moving down to his chest, fingers drumming against his vibranium plates as he waits for her to continue. “My favorite part of the day is waking up to you.” Their eyes meet and the adoration of her stare tugs his body closer to her. “I want you to experience that.”

“I cannot wake up to myself.”

The roll of her eyes draws the corners of his mouth up even further. “Please don’t go all smart ass on me now, you know what I mean. So,” she leans into him, noses just barely touching as she stares into his eyes, “do you want to try this one more time?”

Witchcraft, he has come to decide, is not  only reserved for when scarlet pulses from her hands, but encompasses her every action, the serenity evoked merely from the upward curve of her lips and the sincerity of her stare a beguiling and confusing spell that erases all uncertainty from his mind. “Yes, I trust you.”

“I love you.” Another spell that lacks the traditional wisp of scarlet but that ensnares his very soul, each and every time.

“I love you as well.”

A smile tugs at her mouth as she brings both hands to his cheeks, “Shall we?” Vision nods, eyes sliding closed at the feeling of her thumbs resting on his mouth and the tendrils of her powers reaching into his mind, branching until she has connected with every part of his consciousness to the point that he feels not only her hands along his face but can appreciate the texture of his own lips against the pads of her thumbs and the unexpectedly fast pace of her own heart thrumming within her chest.

“Should we lay down?” It is always strange to speak when they are linked, the words clear in his mind as he says them and then reverberating back to him as Wanda processes the dulcet and appealing (he knows this thought is from Wanda) ebb and flow of his voice.

“Probably.” Though his eyes remain closed he can feel her smile in the rise of his own cheeks, body following hers down onto the mattress, contentment rushing through their link when her body molds along his side, head nuzzled in the crook of his neck and hand resting easily on his stomach, fingers tracing the edge of the vibranium strip along his side.

Vision resolves this time, as he begins to note the transition from alpha to theta waves, to truly allow her control, clamping down the rebellious, terrified portion of his mind and bathing in the glow of her dazzling scarlet essence. Unlike each time before, his body truly syncs with her own, fingers twitching in time with hers, which meet the rhythm of eyes rotating beneath closed lids. When the delta waves begin, her arm tightens around him and it is enough to steal him against the instinctual need to wake up, allowing the darkness to consume him, knowing mists of scarlet are not far away.

Then, much to his surprise, there is activity in his brain again, a restlessness in his body as images flash through his mind, yet a grogginess subsists and he knows, despite the clear signs of wakefulness in his body, that he (well Wanda) is still asleep. An image finally forms clearly in his mind, the perfect, stunning profile of Earth, serene blue waters contrasted against the jagged edges of land. It seems familiar, a sense of deja vu pooling as dread in his chest, the incipient knowledge of what is to come sending his heart into a frenzy. Yet his body refuses to move, his eyes won’t open, and the perception of walls around him, glass above him is claustrophobic.

Vision knows this dream, the only one he has ever had. A tentative, curious tendril of red caresses his mind, prodding with interest. There is a comfort to the touch, a joy at the connection, a yearning to interact, to embrace this first contact, a deep, unshakable desire to bond with this presence. He finds his mind reaching out, sharing the image of the Earth, hoping the beauty of sapphire waters and emerald forests is enough to retain his companion. Suddenly the calm ebony of space is streaked with fire, a bright path leading to a convex explosion and concentric circles of destruction rippling out to consume the Earth.  Terror is the second emotion he identifies in his existence, understands it is not his own feelings but comes from the sharp, expedited withdrawal of the scarlet tendril from his mind. This is not what he wants, this destruction, this pain, yet it continues, the Earth burning and anger boiling within his heart at the assault of such hatred on the peaceful planet, of scaring away the scarlet angel. Then it fades to black, the despair of loneliness the last thing he recalls before he is consumed by nothingness once more.

 

 

A flash of red ripples across his consciousness, oscillating in a 3-4 time signature, spreading out to embrace the entirety of his mind. It is gorgeous, hope bubbling up from his chest that he has atoned for the dream and this is his reward. As the red grows brighter he feels a line being drawn down his face, gentle and light, the pressure almost unquantifiable and yet he knows it exists, can sense the pulses moving along his neurons, passing from synapse to synapse as he catalogues the movement, identifies the faster, more active alpha waves awakening in his brain. Then an unmistakable touch to his cheek, the exact dips of the ridges of her lips forever seared into his memory, called upon when times are bleak or he simply longs for tranquility, flutters his eyes. The room is not dark, the apricot glow of sunrise streaming through the windows, and Vision finds his brow wrinkling, fairly certain it was midnight only ten minutes ago.

“Good morning, Vizh.”  Her voice is different, he thinks, the guttural rasp so characteristic of her accent has softened, the way she says his name acquiring a silken consistency, the syllables slipping through her lips with far too much ease when typically she emphasizes the _zh_ with a subtle growl.  

Vision finds his eyes closing again for a brief moment, wishing to empirically determine if he is still dreaming, if the shockwaves of tingles in his skin from her touch are real or if the butterfly light kisses she trails along his neck, across his shoulder, and down his arm are simply a manifestation of their sleep-addled connection. When he opens his eyes again he is surprised to find her face hovering inches above his, lips curved into a crescent moon and eyes glistening. He finds his hand lifting of its own accord, brushing a strand of hair from her face, intrigued by an odd, disembodied feeling of his mind not quite being tied to his actions as the disorientation of sleep gradually falls away allowing him a chance to experience her in a way he never has before. “Fascinating...”

Her “hmmm” causes her eyelids to scrunch, narrowing the gap he has to study her pupils.

“It seems I have failed to notice the faint brown ring around your pupils,” a, he first finds himself thinking the word _flaw_ , but there is nothing about the way this coloration bleeds into the pale blue of the rest of her iris that would categorize it as a flaw, a more appropriate term would simply be a deviation. Yes, this is a stunning deviation he had never, somehow, noticed before.

Wanda’s eyes scrunch again, a minuscule dilation of her pupils confirming her enjoyment at the observation. “You’re pretty cute when you’re tired.”

The staccato of her giggle falls delicately on his auditory receptors and he cannot stop himself from grinning up at her, amazed at the fortuitous turns of his life that led to this very moment, certain it will remain one of his favorites for the rest of his life. “I,” he studies her face, other hand lifting to trace her jawline, ecstatic at the way her body shivers when his fingers roam along the curve of her neck, “dreamed of you.”

“Oh?”

Vision finds himself unable to continue, breath coming to a halt as she presses her body down against him, the scarlet of her presence flourishing in his mind, reaching into the depths to tease out his dream. But that is not a concern, he does not mind if she sees it, knows she has seen it the only other time he had it as well. And it is curious, he realizes, hands continuing to travel along her body, memorizing each hitch of her breath and sigh from her lungs when his fingers skim reverently under her tank top, along her sides, that Wanda’s is the first face he has seen both times he has woken up. What’s far more important, however, as she leans down to kiss him, his eyes taking in the passion of her stare for one more second before closing to enjoy the moment, is the knowledge that there is no one else he would rather wake up to than her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finally back from my ridiculously long (roughly 40 hours of driving) road trip! The plan for the rest of the summer (probably, but things change) is to bounce between this and The Adventures of the Maximoffs. So a new chapter for this one roughly every 2-3 weeks. 
> 
> Have a great weekend everyone!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


	17. Recollections and Realizations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the anniversary of Pietro's death, Wanda mourns while Vision considers the intricacies of grief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Partially in fulfillment of a request from Anya, but, seeing as how we have the same Scarlet Vision mind, also a story that was on the horizon because I've been wanting to explore Wanda's grief for quite some time. Given there are so many amazing, excellent, heartbreaking stories about Wanda coping immediately after Age of Ultron, I wanted to examine what her grieving might look like further removed from his death. Hopefully it's okay, writing about bereavement is way more difficult than I thought, despite having an unfortunate amount of experience with it. 
> 
> At the same time (hence why this chapter is twice as long and has both of their POVs) the idea of Vision exploring grief was tempting, since he really hasn't experienced it first hand. Hence the second half of the chapter. That half was quite experimental and hopefully seems coherent and not overly melodramatic. 
> 
> Lastly, I wanted this chapter to push them closer to the next stage of their relationship, but I'll mention that afterwards :)
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoy!!

Wanda hugs her knees to her chest, chin resting in the groove between her legs as she stares out. It should, if her life was written with well placed, meaningful metaphors, be raining, lightning crashing and moanful thunder rattling her bones. But instead she squints her eyes against the rising sun, marking the beginning of yet one more year where she is no longer twelve minutes younger. She’s certain Vision would quickly calculate the exact number of minutes older she is now if she asked, but it’s frivolous because even one is far too long.

A hand falls on her shoulder, fingers scrunching reassuringly into her sweatshirt in time with the press of lips to her scalp. “I have brought you tea.”

“Thanks.” Wanda inches her hips to the side, an invitation he quickly accepts, the swing rocking with the addition of his weight. The tea is the perfect temperature, cool enough to drink right away but still hot enough for caution when taking a sip, the blissful travel of heat running down her spine filling her with comfort. They stare in silence at the variegated dawn streaking across the sky, today of all days he rarely speaks first.  Wanda nods towards the sky, the movement small but enough to attract a sideways glance from Vision. “He was never awake for sunrises,” her mouth quirks up at a memory of Pietro stumbling into the room they’d been squatting in, smelling like cheap alcohol and the bartender’s perfume, “well except for when he’d be sneaking in from a night out.” She’d thrown a pillow at his face with a loving _шлюха_ * and insisted he stay awake long enough to watch the sun peak above the trees.  

Vision reaches down to squeeze her knee, hand remaining on her leg as his fingers toy with the edges of the intentional (she always has to assure him) hole in her leggings. “You are remembering.”

The tone of the statement is odd to her, matter-of-fact but also laced with inquisitive longing, curiosity tempting her eyes to slide to the side, taking in the profile of his face, so breathtaking against the lilac striped sky. “Yeah.” 

“Would you,” a pause descends around them, the next words caught in his throat as he stares down at his hand on her leg, his fingers still flicking the frayed fabric, “mind sharing?”  

“Of course, Vizh.” Scarlet crawls from her hand, but he gently grabs her wrist, stopping her from completing the mental link.

“I would prefer if you verbalized it.” A shy smile touches his lips as he pushes her hand away, “I have been reading that talking through grief can be helpful.”

The request isn’t surprising, but the subtext of his request is, the thoughts she can feel streaming from his mind even without strengthening their link suggests it’s not just to help her, but also to satisfy a deep yearning of his to understand the process. “It was a morning when he came home late, had spent the night with someone, I,” as she talks the details seem to fade, the vibrancy of the sunrise and the warmth of his smile falling away into the banks of her memory, not nearly as strong as when it popped into her head, “don’t remember who, but we sat on the roof and he held me in his arms, kissed my head.”  She stares down at her tea, rotating the cup and watching as the liquid creates a tiny whirlpool.

“Does this invoke happiness?”

“I-” it’s been a long time since Vision has sounded so innocent, so unfamiliar with a concept and it throws her off. But she’s never shied away from his prying inquisitiveness and so she closes her eyes, studies the rhythm of her pulse and the invisible weight on her body, identifies the disbelief and amusement, the indulgent, overwhelming love that filled her in that moment and the comfort she drew from the touch of his hand to her own. “Sort of. It’s a happy memory but,” tears start to collect in her eyelids, seeking to follow the still damp trails on her cheeks from before the sun started to rise, “but I miss him so much.”

Arms encase her immediately, pulling her firmly against his chest, unperturbed by the tears soaking his sweater as she collapses into him. “I am sorry for asking.”

Now she’s angry, not really at Vision, though his need to apologize for things that he did not cause can be annoying, but no, right now she doesn’t care about his words. She's angry at life in general, at how unfair it is that Pietro is gone, has been for years and yet she’s still here, happy, healthy, in love, something he never experienced. And she’s angry at the sky for being clear and at the sun for beating down, furious that all she ever requests is that it rains today and not once has it happened, that the only downpour is from her eyes and there is no relief in the taste of salt on her mouth. “Why can’t it rain, Vision, why?”  

His fingers brush through her hair, palms moving to cup the back of her head, guiding her face forward to bring the tips of their noses in contact. The soft, yet determined, unwavering commitment in his eyes steals the air from her lungs. “I believe I can help with that.”

“You’re,” a hiccup severs her words, diaphragm unable to cope with the amount of work her sobs require, “not Thor.”  

“No,” she can only see his eyes but it is enough to understand he is smiling, a sad, hopeful smile if the scrunch of his lower eyelids are any indication, “but I procured a quinjet for us several weeks ago, anticipating that you might wish to visit Pietro.” 

She finds her mouth attempting to smile along with his suggestion but it loses out to the sorrowful shake of her head, “But I’m leaving on a mission tonight. Steve has rules, you know.” 

The grin in his eyes only increases, the playful half-rotation of his irises means he’s somehow already fifty steps ahead of her own thoughts. “I also sought permission from Captain Rogers for you to travel despite your mission tonight. And,” his hands follow the arc of her head until they rest on her cheeks, thumbs wicking away her tears, “according to the forecast it is raining in Lithuania until four this afternoon, that is not terribly out of the way if we leave now.” 

Wanda drops the tea, wrapping it in a cloud of red as she grips his face, crushing her lips to his own with a strangled, thankful, “I love you so much.”

 

 

 

The landing is rocky, Vision’s demeanor is as calm and relaxed as ever, minus the tighter than usual grip he has on the flight controls and the worry frantically running around his mind flailing its arms. Wanda, however, finds her mind serene, a rightness finally in the fury of the clouds outside, the rain whipping past the windows and the threat of thunder in the distance. The furious thrumming against the metal roof brings a smile to her face, one that she flashes towards Vision and he cautiously mirrors.

As soon as the tell-tale bump of the ship touching down jolts their bodies to the side, Wanda unbuckles her harness, stretching her limbs as she stands and impatiently waits for Vision to finish his post-flight system diagnostics.  Once he stands she grabs his hand and pulls him towards the lowering ramp. “Wanda…” the rest of the words aren’t necessary, his gaze directing her towards the waterproof jackets hanging up at their stations but she pulls his body closer so she can rest her chin on his chest and smile up at him.

“It’s important to feel it.”

The confused bend of his head to the side and part of his lips prepares her for some sort of retort but then he shrugs. “If you insist.” 

They stand hand-in-hand at the top of the ramp studying the flow of water, not quite a downpour but far angrier than a drizzle. It’s perfect, down to the splatters against the budding trees and the earthy scent of the mud. Wanda breathes it all in, filling her lungs and holding it until stars flash in her periphery. Then she releases her breath, allowing her sorrow to rise up and twist with the howling, saturated wind.  

Bracing her hand against Vision’s chest, she lifts her right foot, a swirl of scarlet untying the laces of her boots, stripping away the wool socks, toes wiggling appreciatively at their freedom, and then she moves on to the other foot, tossing the boots back into the ship. Three steps down the ramp and her body stops, arm stretched fully backwards, hand still caged in by Vision’s fingers and his unmoving body. “Are you joining me or staying on the ship?”  

Vision stares disapprovingly at the rain, fingers fidgeting in her grip, and then takes two tentative steps forward until he’s even with her. “Is it necessary to be barefoot?”

Briefly she wonders if she's told him the story, because the gentle plea of his voice is so reminiscent of her own, but it's such a small memory, just a flash in her mind and a buzz of excitement, the feeling of chipped paint as she clutches the windowsill, of a wonder budding in her mind at the way the eddies and whirls erode the snowbanks, a nudge to her shoulder and a cocky smile before sneakers smack against her leg and she demands (with a smile tugging relentlessly at her cheeks) _Почему я не могу носить обувь?**_ No, she doubts she’s even thought of that day since meeting Vision, even now she can’t quite place when it happened, whether Pietro still had brown hair or if they were even alone by then.

A muted amusement drags the corners of her mouth up as she realizes how the roles are reversed and it feels strange, but she does her best to channel Pietro, lifting onto her toes just enough so she can playfully nudge Vision with her shoulder. “The first rain each spring,” Wanda explains, “we always embraced. No coats, no shoes, the streets would be filled with people. Winter was so damn long, we were happy to see it leave.”  

Vision weighs her words, the rhythmic tap of his fingers kneading his thoughts into a question. “You did not wish to continue the tradition?”

“It never felt right, without him.”

Vision nods in understanding. “So, how, precisely, do we embrace the rain?”

“Come on.” Wanda pulls him down the ramp, guiding him until they’re in the center of the opening, an ideal spot with no leaves or branches obstructing the flow of the rain.

He sways next to her, transferring his weight to the left and then the right. “This is an odd feeling.” A quick glance down confirms he’s shifted out of his loafers, the sight of his bare toes and the experimental rise and fall of his vibranium heel against the soaked soil is surreal and oddly adorable. “The soil is almost oversaturated,” the wave of his bright toes in the black soil is almost as mesmerizing as the barely contained awe in his voice, “it will start pooling soon.” 

“Good,” she moves around him until she’s facing him, voice distracting him from studying the water forming around his feet, “we need puddles. Now,” it’s hard not to laugh when he begins blinking rapidly at the barrage of water attacking his eyes, a joyously ridiculous fight occurring in the muscles of his face to remain stoic in the face of discomfort, but when she finally laughs, the tight line of his mouth breaks, concern washing away at her delight. “Okay, now let’s just,” she reaches out and lifts his right arm up, encouraging him to hold it out to the side before she moves to the left, repeating the motion. “There, so close your eyes,” a millisecond pause and then he complies, “good. Tilt your head up.” This time there is a much longer pause as he considers the request, heels shifting in the soil before he let’s his shoulders drop and lifts his face to the sky, gasping at the onslaught against his cheeks.

Wanda stares at him, the rivulets racing down his forehead, parting over the Mindstone and following the textured lines of his cheek and the curve of his lips, dripping off his chin to soak into his increasingly darker gray sweater. It’s enthralling, so much so that she finds she briefly forgets to mourn, to be angry, but Pietro, always the hothead, was never angry in the rain, even after the mortar, even after each time they were shooed out of their latest makeshift home, or when he was thrown in a holding cell overnight for stealing food, or when they fought and screamed about whether to sign up for Strucker’s experiments. No, the rain brought him joy. So she closes her eyes, plants her feet firmly in the soil and relishes the way the ground sinks beneath her, the soil pushing up through her toes and the grass tickling her ankles. Slowly she spreads her arms out, reaching until the tips of her fingers brush against Vision’s hand, and tilts her face up, cheeks stinging from the angry, satisfying patter of rain.

 

 

 

Novi Grad is not the same, a fact Wanda finds more difficult to cope with each year. There have been efforts to rebuild, stone structures rising from the leveled ground in small pockets of civilizations, but for the most part people moved, dispersed to new towns, most sought asylum in Slovakia and the Czech Republic, but some returned. The streets that have been repaved are far nicer than they were before the attack, but the money and aid only went for areas with sizeable populations, and as they wander deeper into what would have been her childhood home, the pavement gives way to dirt speckled with patches of grass pushing up through the melting snowbanks.  It is the first time she’s entered the city since it and Pietro fell.  

“Down there,” Wanda, now wearing her spare uniform as her dress is still hanging from the ceiling of the quinjet to dry, points her quarter-eaten pirozhki to the left, “would have been an alleyway. Pietro and I used to sleep there on warm nights, it’s,” for some reason she finds herself blushing at the next memory, uncertain if it’s something she should share or not.

“Yes?”

“It’s where I had my first kiss,” the pirozhki falls to her side as she realizes the way her comment sounded, “not with Pietro,” she shudders, “I think his name was Ales, we were fifteen.”

Vision stands at her side, peering in interest at the non-existent alleyway though the tilt of his head implies he’s attempting to recreate the scene. “So a happy memory?” 

It was in the middle of the day when it happened, Pietro was supposed to be out finding food for them, and Wanda remembers the giddiness of sneaking away to kiss a boy. “Embarrassing more so than happy.” In addition to being hot-headed and cocky, Pietro, was also fairly protective, though looking back it shouldn’t have been a shocking revelation given the way he’d cling to her hand and pull her behind him at any threat even before their parents died. “Pietro somehow knew I was plotting and followed us.  Ended up punching the poor guy, broke his nose. You know, I never saw him again.”

They stare at the flat, empty earth for a few more seconds before continuing on, feet falling in sync as she leads him towards the edge of the forest. “Pietro did,” Vision mulls over his words, fingers lifting into the air with a wave, plucking the syllables from his thoughts, “not approve of Ales?”

“Oh,” Wanda brings a hand to her full mouth as she laughs, taking a moment to swallow the delicious mixture of seasoned meat and potatoes before finishing, “Pietro didn’t approve of anyone.” 

A fretful, serious frown descends on Vision lips, eyes following suit with elongated, thoughtful twists of the gears in his irises. “Would he have approved of me?”

Only after she sees the crestfallen slouch of his shoulders does she realize her exaggerated “Ha! Not at all!” might not have been the best response to the question. “Vizh.” Wanda takes three hurried steps ahead of him, stopping her body directly in his path, bringing her free hand up to his chest to hinder his sad progression. “Pietro didn’t think anyone was good enough, but,” hand still firmly on his chest, Wanda leans in, face angled up just enough that she can catch the still perturbed glint in his eyes, “he would have come around eventually.”   

“That is only a supposition, there is no way to accurately reach that conclusion.”  

“No,” she admits with a shrug and a smile, “but I rarely lost an argument with him, so long as I fought passionately enough. And for you,” her hand travels to the back of his neck, tugging his face lower, kissing him gently, “I would have fought valiantly.”

 

 

The sun is setting by the time they arrive at the small stone half-buried at the base of a gnarled cottonwood. Wanda squeezes Vision’s hand one more time before she drops it. “Did I ever tell you why I chose this one?”

“No.”

After Sokovia fell the team had inquired, politely and timidly, where she wished for Pietro to be buried. Thor had kindly offered a traditional Asgardian burial which would have involved building a pyre on a raft and lighting it on fire in the middle of a lake. Pietro, no doubt, would have loved such a flashy ceremony, but Wanda insisted on something simple, something meaningful. What, looking back, should have been a big, flashing, neon sign of her future was the fact that it was Vision who trudged with her for an entire day, up and down the mountains, exchanging maybe ten words in honor of her wish for silence, never questioning her when she would shake her head and say they had to keep looking. Eventually they came upon this tree, alone in a small valley with an even smaller stream licking at its roots.  When she had stopped and turned to Vision, still so new that he insisted on being in uniform, cape waving majestically regardless of if there was wind, all she had to do was nod and he quietly did all of the work burying the urn and laying the stone.  

“Pietro loved snow,” the tree stands just as it did the day they buried him, diamond-shaped leaves a brilliant green in amongst the white fluff surrounding the seeds, “in the summer, when the seeds fell he always said it reminded him of snow.  They are very rare here so I didn't think we'd find one.”

Vision nods and steps aside, always insisting on keeping a respectful distance, standing silent and watchful as she approaches the stone. Wanda smiles as she crouches down, sliding somewhat gracefully onto her knees as she places the flowers they collected earlier in the day with a meek “Hi.” There are words she should probably say, usually she informs him about her life, about the team, about Vision, but today she kneels in silence, a soft scarlet glow surrounding her as her powers search in desperation for the flighty, erratically paced sprint of his mind. But, as with every year, there is nothing but the achingly still embrace of nothingness and the tears fall unhindered down her cheek as she whispers, “I hate being older than you." 

 

On the flight back Vision sets the autopilot and wraps his arms around Wanda, cradling her in his lap and pressing reassuring, sorrowful kisses to her temple as she cries.

 

 

 

That night the compound is silent, though Vision finds his thoughts deafening as he stands in the middle of the common room staring at the wall near the kitchen, cataloguing each word, each action, each memory Wanda shared with him. Every year he strives to understand grief a bit more, has found it a curious and beguiling process. Technically he has lost someone, though he’s fairly certain the unfortunate provision of destroying Ultron is nowhere near equivalent to what his teammates have experienced. Ultron was not a wingman, not a friend, not a partner, not a brother nor a twin, and definitely not a lover. Which means grief is yet one more area where he grasps desperately at humanity.

Today was the first time Wanda truly brought him into her grief, beyond allowing him to hold her and trail his fingers through her hair. Today she shared her memories, shared the process by which even the most innocuous stimuli can invoke remembrance. The pathway of her thoughts illuminated for him the utility of grief-based recollection. Which implies memories are a cornerstone of grief, a powerful vessel both for coping and for pain. Wanda has often facetiously challenged his assertions about memory, quick to tell him he is being far too detached when he discusses the fallible process of recalling information. But it is scientific fact, stimuli that are perceived and encoded rarely, if ever, remain the same, morphing and twisting with each recall and retelling. Vast amounts of compelling research has explicitly shown that most memories are false in some way, but, Wanda always rolls her eyes with a heart-stoppingly beautiful smirk on her lips, accuracy is not the most important aspect, at least to her. No, where he focuses on details, she strives to recall the emotions, claiming that no amount of inaccuracies can diminish the ripples of joy or sadness or fear or sorrow or nervousness that disturb the pool of remembrance when the pebble of recollection skips across the surface.

Vision blinks his eyes three times, the haze of detached analysis clearing as the room around him comes into crystal clear focus.  “Friday?” 

“Yes, Vision?” 

“Would you please turn on the lights?” 

“Of course.”

The flicker of the industrial bulbs sparking to life bathe the room around him in an eery mixture of shadows and brilliant white.  Once the bulbs reach their full luminescence he moves until he is standing in the dining area, lips set in determined concentration as he prepares for the mental exercise he wishes to attempt given he has ample downtime, having been benched from the current mission (someone always has to watch the compound anytime it is not a cataclysmic, world-ending event).

He begins with a straightforward example.  

Astutely he surveys the leftover decorations from his birthday party, everyone far too intoxicated (or otherwise occupied, in his and Wanda’s instance) to clean up the mess the night before and now conveniently absent on a mission. Carefully he hovers to the table, finger running along the edge of a streamer and he closes his eyes as he visualizes the memory.   

Sam is standing on the table, party hat askew and voice loud, as he leads the others in yet another round of Happy Birthday. Steve, much like himself in similar situations, mouths along with the lyrics, sharing a commiserating stare of someone else who can’t enjoy the revelry of alcohol, while Natasha and Rhodes link arms and harmonize. Wanda, there is a jolt of adrenaline passing through his neurons simply at the thought of her name, is curled into his side, one arm wrapped around his waist, head on his shoulder, and her other hand raising a cup in celebration. If he focuses just a bit more he can feel the comforting squeeze of her arm, the wispy brush of her hair against his bicep, but mostly he feels joy, a slight bit of embarrassment at the continued attention, but mainly an overwhelming and profound exuberance at her presence.  

Vision is so focused on pinpointing the emotions that he suddenly realizes he does not remember the color of the cups, eyelids parting slightly to discover they are blue, not red like he assumed. “Fascinating.” This slight inaccuracy doesn’t temper the warmth residing in his chest, which suggests, perhaps, that emotions might be more powerful than details. Though this claim requires further experimental proof. 

Slowly he moves from the table, wandering into the kitchen, hands acting of their own volition as he grabs the teapot, halting only when he hears the water echoing in the ceramic chamber. It seems his muscles remember Wanda even when his mind is not actively doing so, a morsel of information he shoves away to consider later, turning to return the teapot to the counter. He stops to stare at a splatter of caramel on the backsplash. He had distracted Wanda while she was making the caramel for his cake (well, the team’s cake given he blew out the candles and only tasted some of the frosting because it was on Wanda’s lips). The subtle salty taste of her skin teases his mouth as he recalls bending to trail his lips along her shoulder where her sweatshirt had slid down, his name falling as a surprised and delighted whisper from her lips. The caramel bubbled too high or maybe it was that she flung her hand in surprise, but the satisfied victory at distracting her tugs his mouth into a grin.  

Now that he is allowing his mind the freedom to remember at its whim and discretion, the process begins to overwhelm him, jittery palpitations developing in his chest as he has to determine if he allows the dozens of simultaneous memories playing back to continue or if he clamps it down. But this is for scientific inquiry and so he gives in to every stimulus that provokes his mind.

As his eyes roam around the kitchen he can remember Wanda sitting at the counter pointing a fork at him as she explained the lastest compound gossip. Wanda groaning in exhaustion as she grabbed a water bottle after training. Wanda laughing while stirring the sauce he allowed to boil over. Wanda leaning her back against the counter as she conversed seriously with Natasha. Wanda giggling as they danced around the island, eyes closing in euphoria when he dipped her. Wanda showing him how to prep thyme and the admittance of love that reverberated so deeply in his own mind he was certain the earth shook beneath him. Wanda drunkenly beckoning him towards her, a coquettish smile parting her lips.  

Vision grips the table, eyes blinking rapidly as he stops the flow of images, concerned that if he does not it will render his mind inert with the overflow of information. With a steady rhythm to his breathing serving as a recentering mantra, Vision clears his mind. Once all memories are chased away he cautiously cracks his eyelids. Perhaps he was overzealous in the parameters of the mental exercise, overlooking the importance in setting boundaries, such as only accessing one memory at a time.

With a resolute nod he walks from the kitchen, but makes it as far as the couch before he finds his mind latching onto every little detail in the room. From the middle cushion on the couch where Wanda usually sits cross-legged with her hair cascading down her shoulders, to the book lying on the table that she tossed unceremoniously when he returned from his last mission, to the third window pane from the left where he first had the courage to stammeringly inquire as to their relationship status. Vision has to force his feet to walk a straight line, his muscles yearning to follow an ovoid path as his every thought revolves around her.   

Perhaps a less visited room would be best.

As he moves through the walls (even this action brings to mind the numerous instances he forgot to knock and the countless pillows thrown at his face, her clear annoyance mingling with a vivacious amusement that always seemed to stop his heart), Vision finds himself growing more concerned at his inability to control his mind and at the unmistakable and strong yearning wrapping tighter and tighter around his chest. Finally he reaches a random hallway on the fourth floor, far from the common space and living quarters. He doesn’t believe he and Wanda have ever traversed this hallway together.  

Vision soaks in the peaceful silence of the respite before a sound permeates his auditory receptors, a gentle pitter patter on the window, tiny droplets manifesting on the glass and suddenly he is back in the rain, her fingers intertwined with his own and the impish smile on her face when she jumped into the puddle at his side, soaking him head to foot. The burst of surprise and adoration, the simmering desire at her laugh, the worry at her tears, and the ever-present love that burns within him for this woman overtakes his mind once more.

Vision finds that he misses her immensely.

This is curious, not missing her, per se, but the severity with which he longs for her to return. It is irrational, she has been gone for three hours, at most. But perhaps this yearning, this need is what he has failed to include in the calculations of grief, and, later he is never able to determine if the next action is ideal, he decides to experiment one step further. Wanda will be the first to point out his lack of imagination, in general, but his mind thoroughly enjoys hypotheticals and so he concocts a hypothetical in which Wanda does not return from the mission.

Suddenly the weight of this knowledge pulls on his chest, a heaving, ragged development in his breathing that leads him to lean against the window, the swift increase in cortisol bathing his brain and racing from synapse to synapse, kickstarting his heart into a rapid beating. Because if Wanda does not return it means he will never see her smile again, or hear her laugh, or cause her to roll her eyes, or feel her in his arms, or revel in the breathy, delightful way she says his name when he’s surprised her. The rain behind him is no longer pleasant, but each drop burns like acid in his mind, the memory of her drenched hair and the pink of her skin when she peeled off the wet dress losing all joy as it dissolves with the incessant rain.

It has only been ten hypothetical seconds of his life without Wanda and he can barely cope.

Vision swallows back tears as he leaves the window, phasing two floors down and five rooms over until he is outside their door. If his calculations are up-to-date he has walked through this doorway exactly 6,543 times since knowing Wanda. Which means his mind is racing through thousands of instances where he’s encountered her, brought her tea, knocked sheepishly at her door, phased through, been pushed through it with her lips on his mouth, and each one of those actions will never happen again if she does not return. What is far more harrowing, his knees beginning to give out as he sits on the ground, the cool metal of the wall against his scalp a tenuous tether to reality, is that he is certain there is not a single location in the world that would not bring about some memory of her. And suddenly he understands why Wanda spent weeks under her covers in a dark, quiet room after Sokovia.  

Vision’s fingers are moving before he consciously realizes what he is doing, a sharp, static buzz with each unanswered ring, his breath lying dormant in his chest as he waits.

“Vizh?” The reception is not great, a grainy, flickering image that requires him to adjust his visual processors. He believes he sees Rhodes suiting up behind her. He thinks he can make out through the fuzzy interference the stern and curious raised eyebrow on Natasha’s face as she walks close behind Wanda’s back and makes eye contact with him through the phone. But none of that matters because Wanda’s eyes are concerned and her lips are quirked up just a bit to the right, her hair falling in lazy waves down her shoulders. “You okay?”

Finally his lungs remember that it is normal to breathe and a loud, relieved gust of air storms past his lips as he nods. “Yes, I,” Vision pauses, uncertain if mentioning his hypothetical is conducive to the short communication they can have right now, “wished to follow up, make sure you were mentally prepared for the mission.”

Her eyelids narrow as she studies him with increased suspicion, “Yeah, I’m actually doing pretty well.” 

“Good.”

“Vision,” the questioning tone of her voice is cut off at the command from Steve to hang up and wait until after the mission. “I have to go, Vizh. Thanks again for everything today, love you.” 

A very deliberately calm, “I love you too,” ends the call, hiding the confused thumping of his heart at whether he is elated at speaking with her or if he is terrified of something happening.  

Slowly Vision stands, phasing through the door, steeling his mind against the certain onslaught of memories as he approaches the picture frames Wanda keeps on the desk. Three are of them, together, one from the Charity Ball, one from the training session where she first defeated him (her smile is radiant as he stares up proudly at her from where he is pinned on the floor), and one they took together at a park on a sunny day off. The other frames contain the tattered and faded images of the ghosts of her past.  Vision carefully lifts the chipped gold frame that holds a singed picture of her family.

All he has experienced today is a hypothetical, a brief affair where he pretended to lose Wanda and he can still feel the cortisol racing through his body, the tears still threatening to fall if he so much as dares let his control slip. Yet Wanda has lived through such a loss far too many times, has grieved and remained resilient. They do not speak of the future often, no more than _we should do that_ or _wouldn’t it be fun to go on vacation_ _next year_ , partially (or perhaps fully, he has never been brave enough to ask) because Wanda does not wish to plan too far in advance in case tragedy happens again. But just because they do not talk about it does not mean he does not cogitate over every potential future they might have late at night, trying on futures much like hats, seeing which one fits and accentuates their relationship, and which ones are patently ridiculous.

Every hypothetical future ends relatively the same, yet even he refuses to go much further than a couple decades out because they have also failed to acknowledge the scientific certainty of his lifespan. There is no certain end for this life, no chance for wrinkled skin or deteriorating health.  Usually it is cause for alarm, for the cessation of his daydreaming, but in this moment, Vision finds himself smiling. If there is one shining conclusion from outliving Wanda it is that he will not leave her, that she can live the duration of her life with him at her side and never mourn his passing, never have to bury herself in blankets for weeks or walk through the world constantly reminded of the pang of his absence. This he resolutely, and possibly foolishly, promises. He will never force her to grieve him.

Vision stops at the thought, a lifelong implication insinuated in his conclusion that surprises him and yet feels so achingly right. Mentally he checks the time, calculating the time zone difference, and, going against every protocol outlined in the two hundred page Avenger manual, leaves the compound.

  

 

It is barely dawn when he arrives, the crisp night air enhancing the shimmer of the stars above him, the low hanging gibbous moon allowing just enough light for him to find his way. Vision brightens the Mindstone, casting leafy shadows on the stone at his shuffling feet. He has never accompanied Wanda when she speaks to Pietro, always remains the correct distance to hear muffled cadences but no distinct words, yet still be close enough to offer support at the first sob. Which means he has no idea what to do, so he stands awkwardly, fingers folding one at a time into each other until his hands are clasped.

“Um, hello.” The stone remains silent, unsurprisingly. Vision soldiers awkwardly on, hands parting to wave in emphasis of his words. “You are no doubt aware of the existence of the relationship between Wanda and myself,” he thinks, well assumes Wanda has spoken of him. “I,” Vision pauses again, unsure the correct path forward or if he should even continue, the afterlife a notion he has little regard for, yet he knows that there is a rightness in his actions that he cannot quantify or explain. “I love Wanda, profusely.”  

The first statement is out and Vision pauses, waiting in absurd silence for some reaction. “For the first time today I experienced what life might be like without her,” he thinks back to the compound, to the moment he allowed himself time to reflect on the possibilities, to the immediate reaction he felt both bodily and mentally, the way the thought formed a black hole, spiraling as it drained every ounce of warmth from his life. “Though it was for just a moment, the world around me felt barren, lifeless, joyless, an experience I do not wish to replicate.”  

Vision stares at the stone, notes the tangerine streaks of sunlight filling the crevices of the engraving of Pietro’s name, and brings himself to his conclusion. “I wish to marry Wanda, and I did not want to proceed without your approval.” 

A quiet, whispering wind brushes against his face, the shadows from the leaves quivering overhead.  Vision sighs once more, for some reason he had expected something more. With a final nod he begins to turn, stopping as faint, gossamer bundles of white float down around him. A quick glance up confirms the seeds from the cottonwood are stirring in the wind and Vision smiles, “It is reminiscent of snow.” He opens his fingers, palms facing the sky as the tiny blobs land on his hand. “I shall take this as approval?” One small tuft of fluff floats in front of him and he accidentally breathes it in, coughing politely to remove it from his throat. “And a threat. I swear that I will not harm her.”  

Vision stands in the breeze for several minutes, wonderment spreading through his mind at the beauty of the summer snowfall around him. Then he returns to the ship, mind focused and clear, prepared to finally plan a future with Wanda.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slut  
> **why can’t I wear shoes?
> 
> In case you didn't catch on, there is a proposal looming in the future. Probably in 2 chapters :). Below is the link to VIsion's actual proposal from the comics, I wanted to incorporate some of it in here and there will be touches of it later on too.  
> http://68.media.tumblr.com/8dc10874379b153bcd68165ee35a5a38/tumblr_inline_nhzpn8AGUU1rr4ug7.png
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Comments and kudos always appreciated. Have a great day!


	18. The Honeymoon Phase, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An undercover mission gives Wanda and Vision a taste of wedded bliss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for a request from Anya who wanted Wanda and Vision on an undercover mission as a married couple. 
> 
> What started as a cute, short story has morphed into a monster of a tale that just keeps growing. Because of this, I'm going to post it in two parts, one now and one next week once I finish it up. 
> 
> I also want to encourage everyone to sign up for the Scarlet Vision Exchange (https://scarletvisionexchange2017.tumblr.com). Sign-ups end on July 31. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!!

The walkway is lined with glistening white sand, pearlescent shells twisted into perfect spirals gleam under the hot sun, placed at even intervals to denote the path to the resort. Not that it is possible for them to get lost, their personal concierge for the trip, Kenneth, forging a clear path as he pushes the luggage trolley filled with suitcases and duffel bags, the top bars weighted down with hanging luggage for suits and dresses. Only two of the bags actually contain clothes, the rest stuffed with surveillance equipment, wiretaps, communicators, and smoke bombs, just in case.

Wanda squeezes his hand tighter, leaning her body into his shoulder as she smiles up at him. “Feet on the ground,” her teeth touch her lip in preparation of the V, but she catches herself just in time, “darling.”

Immediately his freshly polished loafers connect with the stone pathway, the thud of his steps a bit too pronounced for a normal density human, but she doesn’t think anyone else will pick up on the slight difference in sound. “My apologies.”

“So,” Kenneth slows down, walking backwards so he can see them, a beaming smile on his face and an overenthusiastic, golden retriever puppy level of warmth and charm to the casualness of his existence, “how’d you propose?”

His fingers tense, gripping her hand as he begins the explanation, one they rehearsed over and over on the private jet. “It was our second anniversary and we were in Paris, we went to dinner,” the usual polished politeness of his voice seems to have fled, replaced by a nervous edge filled with faltering pauses.

Wanda determines it might be best to take over, cutting in with a dreamy, well-placed sigh and a toss of her wavy blonde hair, “It was so romantic! He rented out the entire Eiffel Tower and there was a string quartet and roses everywhere.” Wanda puffs out her chest and tilts her chin up, attempting to embody the essence of affluence, treating this extravagance as just a touch more exceptional than a usual Thursday. She throws in one more sigh for good measure.

It seems to work, a proud thumbs up from Kenneth and a “Well done, good sir!” They keep going, transitioning to a wooden-planked walkway surrounded by individual huts with thatched roofs hovering above crystalline blue waters flecked with the undulating bodies of fish darting under the surface.

“I, thank you,” which is said to both the concierge for the compliment and to Wanda for taking the lead.

The pathway branches to the left, leading them to one of the huts. Kenneth stops, stepping back and motioning with a gallant bow towards the door, “Mr. and Mrs. Williams, welcome to paradise.”

Each and every move for this first interaction has been expertly planned and rehearsed, scrutinized by not only Natasha but Sam as well (having labeled himself the king of romance). She's not surprised when Vision scoops her up into his arms with a disarmingly handsome smile - even with the pale skin, dull blue eyes, and blonde hair - yet Wanda still finds her heart fluttering and a genuine smile tugging at her cheeks as he carries her bridal style through the doorway. Since this is where their script ends, she decides to improvise, filling the time it takes for their luggage to be placed in the room by wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling his mouth to hers, savoring the impossible to disguise nip of vibranium and the perfect texture of his synthetic lips.

The click of the door latching ends the embrace, Vision pulling back with a relieved smile, his nervousness ebbing slightly at the reprieve from prying eyes. “That went well.”

“It did, though we need to work on the proposal story a bit more.”

He lowers her feet to the ground, hand remaining at the small of her back, “The unnecessary extravagance of the action still confounds me, is that a normal proposal?” The way his voice dips from confusion into worry throws her off, but she assumes it’s simply the remnants of his nervousness given it is his first undercover mission now that Steve and Natasha have approved his disguise.

A scarlet wisp caresses his cheek, encouraging his eyes down towards her hand where she waves the glistening 3 carat diamond ring (on loan from a local jeweler), catching the sunlight just right to send prismatic rays around the room. “This ring dictates extravagance.”

“I-” even through the disguise she can tell the gears in his eyes are working overtime, sorting through whatever confusion he is experiencing, multiple thoughts seemingly at war in his unusually muddled mind, “did not believe that would be the type of ring you desired.” The words come out slower than usual, laced with an odd existential worry, and there is an almost cornered look in his eye as he says it.

Wanda studies the ring, agreeing with his assessment, it is far too showy for her tastes. “Yeah, I’d never want this,” a look of relief washes over his face, “but socialite Ana Williams most certainly wants this ring. Let’s see yours.” Slowly he removes his hand from her back, bringing it up to show her the smooth finish of the ring, flexing his fingers to test out the feel of the metal. “See I never would have pegged you as a yellow gold fan.”

“No?” His eyes bore into hers, a singular focus in his gaze that kickstarts the pooling of heat in her cheeks. The topic of marriage was easy to discuss for the mission but sometimes she feels it slip past the detachment of work and into more personal territory. That she finds is terrifying, especially when he looks at her so intently, as if every word is building the foundation of reality, one wrong syllable and the world crumbles.

“No, you seem more like, um, a white gold or probably vibranium type of person, if I had to guess.” The blush breaks on her face and she has to turn away from his intense and questioning stare, deciding that now is a good time to explore their room. The lofted ceilings create a sense of grandness, wood-paneled walls dotted with one-of-a-kind paintings of local floral, a luxurious couch positioned in the center of the room creating a path that she follows to the floor to ceiling sliding glass doors. There’s not even a sound as the door opens, a resort like this would never let the mundane scratch of a door disrupt the soothing melody of the ocean. “Steve really outdid himself with this room.”

Wanda peeks back inside, curious why he’s not responding, and finds him examining the room, fingers lighting over the surface of each board and painting, a contemplative slant to his mouth as he catalogues the textures of the environment. Her eyes remain on him, since the day he was created she has found herself always drawn to the elegance of his body and the tightly controlled ease he puts into each step, but today there is a hesitation to his gait, legs stiff and, she hates to use the word, robotic as he moves towards the suitcases, beginning to unpack their supplies into piles based on type of equipment. “Vizh, you doing okay? You’re walking funny.”

He glances over his shoulder at her, an embarrassed tightness on his lips as he turns to face her. “I am,” his hands wave to indicate his tan linen suit, “unused to actual clothes. The tailoring seems a bit constricting.”

A twirling of her finger through the air is met with his semi-reluctant compliance, Vision turning his body to give her a complete view of the extremely well tailored suit. “I think I found the problem.” One finger to his chest halts his fashion show, his slightly duller eyes following along as Wanda walks her fingers up the row of iridescent seashell buttons of his crisp white shirt until she reaches the top one. “We’re at the beach, not the synagogue.” Carefully she undoes the top button, thrilled at the way the shirt flutters open but even more enthralled at the fact she can actually unbutton his shirt. Wanda grins at the tiny, almost inaudible gasp from above when she traces the exposed skin of his chest, relishing how he tenses when she continues down his shirt. After the third button she leans in, brushing her lips to his chest, the pale skin dissolving away to exquisite vibranium-laced red. A victorious and mischievous smile curls up her lips as she steps back, waving a finger with a _tsk tsk_ “You need to hold your disguise better than that, Vizh.”

Vision releases a shaky breath as he composes himself, the gears in his eyes fading with the red of his skin as he realigns his molecules. “You are very distracting.”

“Steve doesn’t accept excuses,” she pats his chest before sinking into the insanely fluffy cushions of the couch. “You know I’m going to be touching you a lot more than that on this mission,” she finishes with an exaggeratedly posh “darling.”

A tiny smirk flirts with his lips as he sits next to her. “I am aware but I believe my fortitude will increase when it becomes perilous to lose the disguise.”

Wanda tries hard not to roll her eyes, instead allowing her amused and skeptical, “Let’s hope so” do the work for her.

“How is your hair?”

Since they're mission involves a resort, Natasha deemed the traditional baseball cap not good enough, requiring Wanda to undergo hours of extensive braiding, netting, and weaving, worried a bobby pin wig would be too cumbersome. “Still kind of itchy and I'm not sold on being blonde.”

“You are gorgeous.” Vision kisses her cheek, fingers scrunching gently against her head, offering slight relief. “Would you like to review the mission files before our first activity?”

The mission-approved answer is yes, but the allure of the king-size bed visible through the doorway is much stronger, a shift of her body allowing her to swing her leg over his, positioning herself on his lap with her hands tracing the hidden island of vibranium on his sternum. “We could, or we could practice being newlyweds.”

Indecision sends his forehead into a frenzy of wrinkles, a steady exhale of air greeting her words as his hands curve along her sides. “I believe that would be a detrimental, though quite enjoyable, way to commence the mission.”

“Which means?” Her hands undo two more of the buttons, confirming that she might see if he’s willing to wear real clothes one day a month so she can experience this bliss more often.

He catches her wrists in his hands, pulling her flush against him, his mouth just out of reach. “We should review the files,” the disappointment of his decision deflates her shoulders, head dipping to rest in the crook of his neck.

“Fine.”

 

  
“So,” Wanda loops her arms through Vision’s, keeping her voice low while plastering a breezy smile on her face to match what is expected of newlyweds who probably spent the past two hours entangled in sweaty, breathless euphoria instead of pouring over hundreds of pages of cryptic files and grainy pictures. “Do we really think the mastermind is an adults only entertainer?”

Their mission is fairly straightforward, an alarming number of couples are not returning from their honeymoons at the French Polynesian Luxury Resort and Spa, their families, friends, and bosses frantically reporting them missing yet so far not a single person has been found and the resort has been oddly silent on the disappearances. This by itself does not dictate the Avengers’ involvement. What pushes it into the realm of requiring a mind reader and a synthezoid masquerading as a married couple is that two of S.H.I.E.L.D’s best operatives were sent to investigate the issue a month ago and never returned.

A few whispered apologies fall from Vision’s lips as he guides her along a row of people until they settle into their pre-assigned seats. He glances around, ensuring no one is eavesdropping before answering her. “The intel suggests she is high on the list. The first reported disappearance occurred two weeks after she began her residency here.”

“Why didn’t they just fire her?”

Everything about him is off when he’s in the disguise, the shrug of his shoulders seeming less genuine, less endearing when she can’t see the movement of vibranium or the twirl of his irises. “There is little to no proof and the guests rate her quite highly,” yet even with the discomfort of this new face, the essence of him still exists, including his tendency to pause, lips quirking just a touch up when he’s about to make what he considers a humorous remark, “Well other than the ones who are missing.”

Wanda rolls her eyes at him, “I’m sure they find it amusing as well.”

“So,” the twisting of his wrist catches her attention, eyes fixated on the way his thumb brushes the diamond of her ring, “is it normative to have proportionality between the extravagance of the proposal and the size of the ring?”

Disbelief bubbles up, escaping as an exasperated laugh, the topic of appropriate proposals for their characters a long-running theme since the mission was announced. Even Nat joined the debate, sidling up to Wanda in random locations in the compound to run a few ideas past her until they settled on what was best. “I guess that’s fair,” until all the attention of the mission she’d never really put much thought into proposals, well that’s not completely true, she has occasionally allowed her mind to wander to such things, usually on cold afternoons when she’s wrapped up in Vision’s arms, basking in the warmth of his comfort, but nothing concrete. Proportionality is definitely not a concept she's cogitated. Somehow he always offers a perspective just slightly askew of her own that forces her to view things differently. It’s one of the many things she loves about him. “It also depends a lot on the person as well. Like, that would be way too much for me regardless of the ring.”

His analytic “I see,” is so densely layered her fingers itch to just dive into his head to see what’s going on but the dimming overhead lights and rumble of drums announcing the act distract her from further inquiry.

A disembodied voice floats down from the speakers embedded in the ceiling, “Ladies and Gentlemen, it is my honor to present the ever enthralling,” the drums crescendo as the announcer deepens his voice for a purposely elongated and overly enunciated, “Enchantress.”

Applause fill the room as the curtains open, the stage filled with exotic plants, emerald green leaves contrasting against the brilliant reds and yellows of the flowers, but none compare to the dramatic stance of the black-haired woman standing proudly on a gem encrusted flower, the green of her dress a touch darker than the backdrop. “A bit gaudy, don’t you think.”

Vision watches the woman unfurl her arms and spin, lifting several feet into the air and hovering to the ground without any readily apparent apparatus. “Is that not a requirement of showmanship?”

“Still tacky.”

The show is fairly standard, a mix of dancing, singing, and comedic interludes, the Enchantress strutting along the stage and losing clothes as the night continues until she ends up in a green corset, matching sequined thong, and black fishnets threaded with golden circles up the middle of her legs. “I think it’s time for our newlywed portion,” the woman on stage announces, howling cheers from the people around them suggests this is what everyone’s been waiting for. “Please, check below your seats to find out who gets the,” her voice drops an octave, a sultry edge lacing the word, “pleasure of joining me up here.”

Wanda glances around the room, watching a couple stand up with a “Whoop!” and another reluctantly rising from their seats, hands waving in a clear sign of a small argument over whether they should admit to being selected. “There is still one more out there.”

“W--Ana?” A gentle hand to her shoulder conveys a rare fear, one she’s only experienced from him twice before, but it’s wholly understandable, his other hand holding up a leaf-shaped paper exclaiming _Congratulations! Head up to the stage now!_ “I do not recall seeing this in the dossier.”

“Maybe it was a last minute addition?” A reminder that there is still one more invitation out there is broadcast to everyone, the people nearest to them staring expectantly at the leaf in Vision’s hand, a few encouraging _Get up theres_ whispered from behind them. “Let’s go.” Wanda stands, grabbing his hand to pull him up with her and takes the leaf, waving it in pseudo-triumph as they join the other two couples on stage.

A stagehand carries out three chairs and the Enchantress twirls around, instructing them on what comes next, “Our dashing men, please sit down,” all three of them take a seat. “Now ladies, pick a lap, any lap will do.” Vision immediately sends her a desperate, pleading gaze and Wanda sits on his lap, unsurprised when the other couples remain together, but a prickle of unease from the directions forms a portent of what is to come in the show. Their host turns back to the audience with a “Let’s meet our lucky guests, shall we?”

The cheers from the audience fill the room as she sashays to the first couple. Wanda finds herself unable to fully pay attention to anything. Part of her mind is focused on what is being asked of the first couple (Rees and Layla from Wales, married three days ago, what he loves most about her is her tits), another on the erratic pulsing of discomfort from Vision whose arms are tighter than needed around her waist yet impressively his face is neutral with a decently faked smirk of amusement, and finally, perhaps most prominently, Wanda studies the way the Enchantress moves. Each question is technically asked of the pair, but her hand caresses the man’s shoulder, outside of the view of his partner, fingers climbing up through his hair and brushing his forehead. There is something else, a flash of green around her fingers but Wanda can’t parse out exactly what it is before she sees the simpering saunter of their host approaching them. The woman places herself at an angle, one hip behind Vision, her hand falling to his shoulder (which leads to an immediate build up of tension in his muscles). “Last but not least we have?”

The microphone hovers in front of Vision’s mouth, “Simon and Ana Williams, we have been married for a day.”

“Oh, the freshest meat of the bunch.” Catcalls intermix with clapping from the audience, but all Wanda can focus on is the trailing of the woman’s hand along Vision’s shoulders. “You, handsome,” her hand ruffles the hair on the back of his head and Wanda finds a strange, roiling rage fanning into existence in her stomach, “look like you have a brilliant mind, what do you do?”

“I am a roboticist.”

The Enchantress finally removes her hand from his head, turning towards the audience with a playful smile as she fans herself, releasing a suggestive sigh before she comments on his answer, “I can only imagine what he’s wired up for the bedroom, you lucky lady.” Annoyingly her hand descends again onto his shoulder, trailing lazily back and forth, “So Mr. Roboto, what do you love most about your wife?”

“I,” Vision stares into her eyes and suddenly Wanda no longer feels like they're on a stage, but his smile draws her to the compound, to their bed, wrapped up in each other, alone and safe and warm, his hand releasing its grip on her waist to brush a strand of hair from her face, “admire and adore her resilience.”

The moment is broken when someone from the crowd, clearly a regular, or at least semi-regular attendee, impatiently yells, “We don't care! Show them the dance!”

The solitary demand quickly builds into a chant, crescendoing within seconds before the green-clad woman raises her hands in defeat, “Oh if you insist. Ladies?” Wanda eyes the woman suspiciously, not particularly excited by the husk developing in her voice. “It is my solemn duty to add a bit of spice into your life,” a wink is thrown at the audience, the music sliding from the sultry background jazz to the easily recognizable dun-dun-nah-nah-nah of burlesque. The implication makes the hairs along her arm stand on end as Wanda wraps herself protectively around Vision’s neck. The Enchantress pulls a feather boa seemingly from thin air, shimmying it down her arms as she walks back and forth in front of the three couples. “So,who’s willing to step away from your husband for a demonstration that I’m sure you’ll all,” the end of the boa points suggestively at each one of them as she talks, “want to use tonight.”

Vision’s mind screams at her to please stay where she is despite the cacophony of encouraging yells from the crowd and the expectant stares of both the host and the stagehands hiding in the curtains. This might technically be part of the mission, but Wanda finds herself unwilling to budge, briefly wondering if maybe it would have been best to bring Sam since he’d probably be perfectly okay offering himself as a sacrificial lamb right now. But then, like a guardian angel descending from the stifling, bright stage lights of heaven, Rees, from couple number 1, proudly declares “I volunteer as tribute!”

 

  
The glass is refreshingly cold in her hand, a little rainbow umbrella sticking up from the bright red daquiri to denote, if there was any such confusion, that this is a fun drink. Wanda plucks the umbrella, twirling it between her fingers while she studies Vision, his body leaned back into the chair, legs crossed, and elbow resting comfortably on the armrest. It’s odd spending so much time with him looking like this, at having to remind herself it’s not a stranger whenever she catches him in her periphery. The disguise is impressive and since he’s already extraordinarily sexy, it comes as no surprise that his alter ego is as well. Still, she can’t help but imagine how beautifully his crimson skin would compliment the tropical prints all around them and then she chuckles at the image of him in a floral printed button up. Vision doesn’t even flinch at her laugh, eyes not so subtly glued to the bartender as he expertly pours out a martini for a woman at the bar. Wanda twirls the umbrella again, deciding she should probably get his attention before he gives away their stake out.

  
She leans closer to him, eying the side of his head, never realizing until now just how strange ears are and how wrong they look on him, but she's determined the only way to be okay with the disguise is to find little things she doesn't usually get to experience. Delicately she reaches out and places the umbrella behind his ear, allowing her fingers the luxury to brush through the silken threads of his synthetic hair.

The attempt fails, in fact the rainbow umbrella only serves to highlight the dense seriousness in the air between them, his mind trapped in the vortices of analytic reconnaissance as his eyes track their mark. Attempt two needs to be less subtle, apparently, so she lifts her glass. “A toast!” She waits until her words have reached him, Vision turning towards her, blinking in confusion at the brush of the umbrella against his face. Wanda smirks at his confusion and then repeats herself, tilting her head towards his glass, “A toast.” Finally the words seem to resonate with him, his daiquiri rising to the same level as her glass, a silent inquiry in his apprehensive squint, “to our honeymoon not starting with an uncomfortably long lap dance from a stranger.”

Finally his I’m-on-a-mission face breaks, replaced by a bashful, commiserable smirk at the fresh mortification of what almost happened to him during the show. “Yes, cheers indeed.” Their glasses clink and she can’t help smiling when he actually joins her in enjoying their free beverages, a compensation for their willingness to be part of the show. Vision tilts his head, eyes narrowing while his lips smack approvingly. “That is quite delicious.”

“Not sure why you sound so surprised.”

He shrugs and she’s mesmerized at the way his very real shirt parts slightly wider at the end of the motion. “Based on observations of our teammates and my one experience, the imbibing of alcoholic beverages is typically met with unpleasant shudders.”

It’s adorable to watch him experience new things, a childlike vim overtaking his body. “That’s just because Natasha believes drinks should be 95 percent alcohol and 5 percent mixer.”

The bartender glances over at them, a blender of bright red deliciousness held up with a questioning point. Neither of their drinks are close to being empty but given they’re supposed to be gathering information on the bartender Wanda sends him a thumbs up. “Just to let you know,” she reaches out to squeeze Vision’s knee, Natasha’s undercover bootcamp stressing that they need to always be touching to sell their can’t-keep-our-hands-off-each-other newlywed status, “our mark is heading over.”

His hand falls on hers, a conspiratorial smirk tipping his lips up. “Understood.”

“You are drinking too slowly! Is it not to your standards?”

The question is asked in jest, but the frown on VIsion’s face is utterly serious when he insists, “Not at all, the drinks are quite delicious, we are simply savoring them.”

The bartender brings his hand to Vision’s shoulder and shakes it with a laugh, “Good, let me top you off.” Before they can turn him down, the blender is already over their drinks, expertly filling every groove of emptiness without a single drip on the table.

“Thank you,” Wanda grabs the cup and lifts it to the man.

A nonchalant wave and a shrug is her you’re welcome. “Oh, I was asked to drop this off for you.” He reaches into his back pocket and draws out an emerald envelop with gold filigree around the edges.

Vision takes, turning it over in his hand. “Who is this from?”

“I never know,” which is true, based on Wanda's surface level reading of his mind, “they hand me things and say ‘Fetu, deliver this and deliver that’ as if I'm some unimportant errand boy.” The man frowns, eyes sad, “sorry, work in paradise is still work.” His jubilation returns, an expertly applied mask he puts on for the customers. “Most important piece of information for you,” a suggestive nod is sent towards her hand on Vision’s knee, “you are more than welcome to remove your drinks from this area, we understand the,” a finger taps his nose as if he is in on some secret with them, “needs of our honeymooners.”

This is where they have to sell their cover, which Wanda does gleefully, sliding her hand up along the inside of Vision’s thigh, relishing his slight jump but impressed when he recovers quickly with a knowing wink towards the bartender, “We appreciate the information, now,” Vision stops her hand, lacing his fingers through hers and gently pulling her up to stand with him, “we have other important matters to attend to, my dear.”

“Enjoy paradise, my friends!”

Once they’re out of the bar, they duck into a small, dark alcove in the hallway, Wanda sipping her drink while her eyes follow his fingers as he opens the envelope. “What is it?” Vision doesn’t immediately respond, lips pursed as he reads it again.

“We have been cordially invited to use the VIP pool tomorrow.” He passes the invitation to her and a waft of floral perfume strangles her senses when she flips the card open. There is no name at the bottom, nothing to indicate who invited them or exactly what this means but Wanda’s fairly certain it’s a good thing for their mission. “Shall we proceed to more reconnaissance?”

Wanda shuts the invitation, stepping up close enough for their bodies to touch as she reaches down to slide the paper into his pocket, her hand lingering several seconds longer than necessary to accomplish the task. “I thought we were going to be newlyweds?” It’s not quite disappointment in his eyes, closer to disbelief but with a slight annoyance. “I’m joking, Vizh.” Someone walks past them and Wanda presses her body closer, hoping it discourages anyone from approaching them. “So,” thoughtfully her fingers play with the lapels of his jacket, “I assume we’re following what we practiced? You lead the way but follow my lead?”

“Correct.”

She matches the mischievous grin on his face. “Where to, darling?”

They wind through the resort, doing their best to avoid prying eyes, a purposefully disoriented loping to their steps as they make their way with several whispered warnings of “Drunk does not mean you phase through the floor, darling.” Anytime someone attempts to talk to them, mostly to inquire if they are lost, Wanda pulls a Romanov, capturing Vision’s lips and savoring the remnants of daiquiri on his tongue until the person gets the hint and leaves. Eventually they reach a door with a professionally done sign that informs them it is a restricted area and legal action is guaranteed for trespassers.

Wanda turns the handle, unsurprisingly finding it to be locked. “How do we-” his mouth stifles her question, an arm wrapping around her waist as he shoves her against the door pulling a low, throaty moan from her mouth. He changes the angle of the kiss, lifting her slightly as he slides his leg between her thighs, an action that is mission-wise unnecessary, but in her opinion completely needed, and then the door clicks open. Much to her dismay he pecks her cheek and pulls back, his hand solidifying once it is out of the door.

“This way,” the cocky grin on his face is almost wide enough to show teeth as he mulls over his word choice, hand running lazily along her thigh “my beloved.”

Her eyes narrow, not used to be one-upped, “Tease,” and she steps past him, elbowing him in the ribs for good measure, into a dimly lit room filled with filing cabinets and shelves covered in boxes. A quick assessment of the space identifies two security cameras and a flick of a finger sends scarlet into the wires, short circuiting the security system hopefully for long enough to gather information. “So, what do we want to find?”

Before the question ends, he is already elbow deep in a box, eyes scanning the contents, frowning when he clearly doesn’t find anything of value, and then he moves on. “I have a hypothesis.” Vision continues moving through the boxes, never finishing the thought.

“That would be?”

“Oh,” he stops, embarrassment at his actions manifesting in a shuffle of his feet and a widening of his eyes, “I wish to determine if all of the missing couples were included in the Enchantress’ show.”

This works for her, the bartender, other than passing along an invitation, didn’t seem at all suspicious, something Wanda cannot say is true for the entertainer. “Sounds good.” She moves to the opposite side of the room, flicking through tabbed folders labeled with meaningless names. In the tenth box, however, there is a thick folder labeled Amora Vahiné, she removes it, leaning against the shelf as she flips it open, immediately met with a picture of the Enchantress and her application to work at the resort. “Vizh.”

The absence of any cameras or the risk of being found out means his head pops out of the wall of filing cabinets separating them. “Yes, Wanda?”

“Really? You can’t just walk around it?”

“I could if I wished to be inefficient.”

Wanda rolls her eyes, showing him the picture, “I’m pretty certain we have the right person. Have you found anything?”

“Um,” his head disappears and there is a shuffle of papers and then the thud of feet, his body rounding the corner, five folders in his hands. “Perhaps, these are the five couples that went missing, but I have not been able to examine the contents yet.”

A knock on the door startles them, Vision losing control, phasing several inches through the floor, his disguise flickering briefly. “Who’s in there?” The voice is not happy, a threat evident in the question.

Wanda hugs him close, hands desperately tugging at the back of his shirt until it is free of his pants. “Give me the files.”

“I-”

“Give them to me.” Reluctantly he hands them over and Wanda shoves them in the back of his pants, dropping his shirt and jacket to cover them. “Now let’s be newlyweds.”

Right now is when she is supremely happy Vision convinced Steve and Natasha to send him instead of Sam, a process that included a 45 minute powerpoint presentation given to the team concerning all the reasons Vision, even with his slightly unstable disguise, would be a more beneficial choice. She’s not certain how it worked, Sam was pumped at the idea of a resort mission, but she’s thankful nonetheless, because the way Vision lifts her, hands under her thighs, encouraging her legs to wrap around his waist, and the hunger in his lips against her neck are far more convincing than anything she’d ever be willing to think about doing with Sam. Wanda allows herself to get lost in him, mission be damned, squeezing her legs in time with his kisses, gripping the poles holding the shelves up as he pushes her dress up, fingers toying with the edge of her underwear. Somewhere, far in the back of her head, she knows the door opens, that three more minds enter the room, but the novel sensation of a wedding ring skimming her thighs, a band of metal on his body that she hasn’t grown accustomed to is far too distracting, and the surprising thrill at the idea of this being a lifelong sensation intensifies the passion building within her when he sucks at the hollow of her neck. A confused and uncertain, “Hey!” ruins the moment, Vision turning his head, the rise and fall of his heaving chest against hers deeply satisfying, and she joins him seconds later, staring at three armed guards.

Wanda tries to think of a reply but is saved the mental trouble by a surprisingly convincing slur in Vision’s typically smooth accent. “Oh this is embarrassing.” Briefly he turns to smile at her and it is alarmingly disorienting, “Is this not our room?”

A disgusted and fed up, “Honeymooners” is shared between the guards before they encourage Vision to place her back on the ground and then they are led on a procession of shame through the resort, flanked by the guards, until they are dropped off at their room, the lead guard pointing at the door, voice akin to one used on misbehaving children. “This is your room.”

Wanda waves drunkenly at the guards, closing the door and allowing an impish smile to overtake her lips as she approaches Vision, his back facing her as he lays the stolen folders on the table. “So,” leisurely she slides her hands under his shirt, using the tips of her nails to draw diamonds on his skin, “want to pick up where we left off, hubby?”

The folder in his hand drops to the table, the muscles in his back tensing in what she hopes is desire. “Were you aware,”

“That you’re wearing too many clothes?”

Vision turns around slowly, eyes closing as her hand dips to trace the edge of his pocket, “A subjective question, but not my intended one, no, that if we solve the mission early we are permitted to enjoy the remainder of the reservation in peace?”

This is new information, something this important surely would have been included in the mission briefing. “I think you’re bluffing.”

“Page 197, line 35, footnote 207 in the fine print, I swear.”

Wanda eyes him, glancing curiously over to the fat binder of information for the mission and then back at him. One of the many joys of dating Vision is knowing he is a horrible liar and thus rarely attempts trickery. Currently his eyes, the dull blue brightening a hue the longer she stares at him, brim with honesty and a barely contained lust. All she’d have to do is lean into him and she knows he’d cave. “So if we delay our gratification…”

It’s a gamble on his part, touching her, but the innocent, calm brush of his finger down her neck emphasizes his next point, “Without a mission we would be unhindered in partaking of each other’s company, wherever and whenever we like.”

A bit begrudgingly she concedes to the logic, already planning their obligation free days as she lifts onto the tips of her toes to kiss him. “Let’s dive into these folders, then.”

 

  
“What am I looking at, exactly?” Vision had been gone on extra reconnaissance for almost the entire night, creeping into the room with the sunrise, allowing her a whole twenty minutes of whispered good mornings, and achingly tame kisses before informing her they needed to make a stop on the way to their luxury VIP pool party. The hope, foolishly, was that he had planned some romantic breakfast, the brochure on their nightstand lauding the ambience and intimacy of a beachside cabana for two, instead she is standing in another restricted room, though this one is a bit brighter than the last one. There’s a pool in the middle of the room, more of a moat, if she had to be specific, that surrounds a raised platform holding a wide-mouthed pot that is itself housing a plant with long, arcing saw-toothed leaves and a tightly clenched pod in the center.

Vision steps forward, leaning over the water for a closer look. “I am not wholly certain but several of the workers in this section spoke of the upcoming unveiling.”

The moat is impressive, five vibrant and pied tropical fish darting after each other, but the plant itself is, well, a plant. “And you think this is important for the mission?”

A wishy-washy shrug goes along with his, “Perhaps? The files I was able to peruse suggested the flower was transplanted here three days before Amora interviewed for the position. It could be important or a coincidence.” Another shrug and a carefully practiced boyish, nonchalant smile is the perfect weapon to draw her closer, and she assumes, perhaps wrongly, he is aware of how well the smile pairs with his khaki shorts and short sleeved button-up. “I also thought it was peaceful and wished to share it.”

“Minus all the signs warning about trespassing, it is kind of peaceful.”

A surprisingly loud, “There you are!” catches them off guard, Wanda dropping into a defensive stance, hands a faint scarlet and Vision’s shoulders pulled back and ready to use the Mindstone if needed. When the voice is placed with the constantly smiling face of their concierge, they both resume normal, albeit slightly embarrassed stances. Kenneth’s forehead erupts into wrinkles once he glances around at the room, “How’d you get in here?”

Phasing and a bit of sorcery is probably not the best answer. “The door was unlocked,” is offered as a plausible explanation from Vision.

“Huh,” his brief frown is quickly replaced by a beaming smile, finger raised to point at the plant. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she? We keep thinking she’s going to die any day now, it’s the first time anyone’s successfully transplanted one of them off the mountain.” The statement is filled with pride, a touch of awe, and a hint of deep, pulsing love.

Wanda tries to channel Natasha, reading not only the surface level of his words, but identifying the subtextual layers of meaning and potentially pertinent information. So far, however, she’s got nothing. “What type of plant is it?”

The glimmer in his eyes is one she does recognize, the same excitement sends Vision’s irises twirling anytime she asks him to explain what he and Helen are currently working on or to expand on a gibberish scientific comment he’s made. Which seems odd for their concierge concerning a flower. “It is a Tiare Apetahi, a flower that only grows on a plateau on this island. Every attempt to transplant it lower on the mountain or grow it in a lab has failed, well,” he shrugs as if it is not a huge accomplishment, “until now. I’m actually a botanist. But they won’t let me stay at the resort to look after her unless I work for them.”

Vision finally looks away from the plant, “What does it look like?”

“Oh,” the man fumbles in his pocket for his phone, swiping across the screen and then tapping until the smile returns to his face, “like this.” The phone is passed over to them the screen filled with a picture of an asymmetrical white flower, five petals all on one side. “It’s a really famous flower here, has a legend and everything, well,” he waves his head as he reconsiders his statement, “one legend but like 5 versions of it.”

A polite and curious smile forms on Vision’s face. “May we hear your preferred version?”

The man doesn't skip a beat before launching excitedly into the story. “It is a tale of love and loss,” Kenneth clutches his chest dramatically, eyes staring into far-offs lands, “a fisherman married a fair maiden, named Apetahi, and they were happy, blissful, much like you two.” A rare hesitation freezes his smile, but is whisked away quickly as he continues, “But then he strayed from her, lured in by the beauty of a younger woman. When his wife found out she was grief stricken, they argued, yelling so loud it attracted the attention of the entire village. In her sorrow she fled to the plateau, dug a hole in the ground, then cut off her hand and buried it. She died of blood loss and when they finally found her missing body, this flower had bloomed where her hand had been buried. That is why it's five petals form the shape of a hand.”

Vision frowns at the plant, and Wanda agrees with the pulse of painful confusion in his mind, wondering why such legends are always so laden with deceit and loss. “Are there other legends of the island?”

“Of course,” Kenneth steps back from the plant rotating his wrist to check the time, “I can have a book delivered to your hut, but you ought to get going, it’s almost time for your day at the pool.”

Confusion blossoms in Vision’s mind, but Kenneth shoos them along too quickly for Wanda to stop and ask what is bothering him.

 

They are dropped off at the VIP pool, though only after Kenneth triple checks they have their swimsuits and sunscreen, warning that sunburns are never conducive to newlywed activities. Wanda grips Vision’s hand, a small, tight ball of panic sitting on her chest, not exactly sure what is behind the door. “You’re wearing the right swimsuit?”

A defeated sigh is enough of an answer, but his quiet, “I do not understand why it is necessary, but yes.”

“I just have a feeling it is.”

The door opens and they are greeted by a bare-chested, impressively chiseled man dressed only in thin white pants and sunglasses. “Invitation?” Vision removes the paper from his pocket and hands it over, the man lifting his glasses, turning the paper in order to examine it from every angle, the pool apparently so exclusive they are worried about counterfeit invites. “Welcome.” A deep bow and the broad sweep of his arm ushers them in and Wanda has to keep her jaw from dropping at the shimmering water of the infinity pool, the edge seamlessly meeting the expanse of the ocean beyond, the strategically planted palm trees offering shade over the cushioned lounge chairs around the perimeter. There’s a thatch-roofed gazebo to the left, a chaise lounge with an emerald cushion and golden base housing the unmistakable body of their grinning host, Amora, waving happily at them.

Wanda leads them to a pair of chairs, the protocol for what to do at an exclusive pool unclear, especially since she assumed the other two couples from the show would be attending as well. “What do you think we do?”

He shrugs, adding an uncertain, “Perhaps we wait until she instigates contact?”

“Sounds good.” Swimming was not a common excursion in Sokovia, the winter dragging on longer than it was ever welcome and the brief summer unrelenting enough that even the promise of tepid water was not an overly strong temptation to risk the heat of the three mile walk. Despite this, Wanda is perfectly aware how to act, untying her wrap dress and letting it fall to the ground. “You going to stay like that?” Vision turns towards her and his agape, stuttering mouth is exactly the reaction she hoped for when she snuck the swimsuit into the suitcase. Her approach is slow and deliberate, toying with the buttons on his shirt once she’s close enough, undoing each one as she waits for him to respond in some way. Even after she’s reached the last button and cheerfully stripped it off his arms, he remains standing in awe, or confusion, but she hopes awe. “You liked it so much last time, figured it was a safe choice for our pseudo-honeymoon.” Still speechless, he nods, hands coming to trace the black straps crisscrossing over her chest, following the lines up her shoulders and to her upper back, smiling before dipping his face to catch her lips, stealing the breath from her lungs and making her dizzy.

A polite cough interrupts them and a different shirtless man is standing with two margaritas and sandwiches on a tray. “Compliments of Amora.”

“Oh, yes, thank you.” Vision grips the tray, turning back and forth until he finds a suitable place for it. Cautiously he glances around, assessing the location of the two poolboys. “Do you believe it is safe to discuss updates?”

She joins him in studying their surroundings. It seems there are only three other people here, the one man at the door, their bartender tucked back in a shaded cabana bar, and their host across the pool. “It’ll be safer if you take off your shorts.” It could be the effects of the sun or the red cloth umbrellas overhead or his disguise fading briefly, but she thinks he might blush as he undoes his belt, eyes darting nervously around before he drops the khaki shorts and a ravenous smile spreads across her face at the reappearance of his tiny swim shorts. “Much better.”

A deep, unamused inhale reaffirms his misgivings about the swimsuit, but he doesn’t say anything else, lowering himself onto one of the chairs, shimmying his body from side to side until he is comfortable. “Would you,” the blush is back, joined this time by a sheepish pat to his thigh, “like join me?”

“Of course,” she curls easily along his body, head resting on his chest with her arm draped over his waist. “So, what’d you learn last night?”

One more check of their solitude and he fills her in, hand moving along her arm in long, even strokes. “As we discovered in the files,all five couples were part of her show.” This, to Wanda at least, is enough for her to feel confident in arresting their host, but Vision seems more reluctant, not wishing to mar her career in case they are wrong. “Additionally, it seems all five were invited to her pool the next day.”

“Oh, so we’re her next target then?”

He hesitates, “It is a logical hypothesis.”

“Okay, what else?”

The bartender passes by with an inquisitive and slightly offended look at their untouched margaritas. Once he resumes his position far away, Vision shifts slightly underneath her, cradling her closer so that he is talking quietly into her ear, just in case. “The bartender has solid alibis, as does the director of activities, and all of the custodial staff. The only other new addition just prior to the disappearances,” his breath is hot against her ear and it is almost impossible to pay attention, “was the successful transplant of the Tiare Apetahi.”

“The flower from today, right?”

He nods, the movement nudging her head slightly, “Correct. I am still unsure,” the explanation stops as the guard near the door walks in front of them, long strides taking him to the edge of the pool where he turns and walks back to the door, throwing out a friendly hello on his way back. “If the flower is important but it seems oddly coincidental.”

Wanda takes it all in, agreeing with his uncertainty about what, if any connection exists between the facts. “Just before we left the flower, Kenneth said something and you were confused.”

“Oh yes. There was never any indication-” another intrusion of footsteps echo behind her and Vision's eyes closely follow whoever it is,the edges of his lips drooping slightly. “May we help you?”

It’s the front gate guard, “She wants to see you.” A twitch of his head indicates the thatched gazebo where Amora is now sitting up, a posture of anticipation and what Wanda would label a predatory smile on her face, even though technically she’s too far away to fairly define exact emotions.

Wanda smiles up at the man, “Okay, we’ll head over.”

“Not you, ma’am, just him.” His tone business like, authoritative, but almost edging on apologetic. “You have to swim across.”

Without being able to phase out of the chair, Vision struggles to remove himself from her grip, something that she could help him with but she finds his slightly frustrated escape attempts too entertaining, only relenting and letting him move her arm once he offers a pleasant, “Please?” and a kiss.

He stands at the foot of the chair, the muscles in his back constricting as his fists clench. “Darling?” Vision turns towards her, nerves fading at what she hopes is an easygoing smile on her face, despite her own misgivings. “Remember to play along, it’s for the,” she mouths mission just in case. He nods and she has to ignore the chill crawling up her spine, has to repeat the advice to herself in an attempt to believe it. 

The ease of his dive into the pool is beautiful, Rhodes nicknamed him the Swan Prince after the first Avenger pool party, a nickname Vision has graciously allowed them to continue using despite the fact Wanda knows it bothers him.  He is incredibly graceful in the water, lanky arms propelling him effortlessly to the other side.  Even if she is not wholly comfortable with whatever is about to happen, she does have to appreciate the view of Vision getting out of the pool, his tiny, teal swimsuit accentuating her favorite asset quite nicely.

Slowly he approaches the chaise lounge, gesticulating a bit wilder than usual, but it seems, based on the woman’s smile, that she doesn’t notice, or care, about his nervousness. She says something and there is a millisecond pause in Vision’s movements that causes the hair on Wanda’s arms stand to attention, his body language subtly shifting into a defensive stance. A beckoning finger brings him closer to the chaise with a  hesitant step.  He bends lower, the tilt of his head implies he's doing it to hear whatever she is saying, which is when a finely manicured hand falls on his back and Wanda feels her powers churning just below the surface. She has to start a mantra of _it’s for the mission, it’s for the mission, it’s for the mission_ to keep herself from diving into the pool and joining them. Then the woman’s hand travels down his back, a finger teasingly flicking the waistband of his suit and Wanda finds herself talking out loud, “Don’t you dare go lower.”

Unfortunately she dares and Wanda sees red. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully you made it here and enjoyed it enough to want the second half! I'll link to all the comics and other inspirations for the story in the next chapter, don't want to spoil anything. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated and cherished. 
> 
> As always, hope you enjoyed and have a wonderful weekend!


	19. The Honeymoon Phase, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda finds herself torn between following the mission and keeping Vision as far away from eager hands as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the rest and holy moly, this chapter ended up about 10 pages longer than expected and I now fully admit this should have been its own chaptered story. But oh well, just be ready for a long one! Anya, I hope you are proud that this is now the longest chapter I've ever posted.
> 
> For anyone interested, there are still 3 days (sign-ups end July 31st) left to sign up for the Scarlet Vision Exchange (scarletvisionexchange2017.tumblr.com)!!
> 
> Also, minor language and some violence in this chapter. Plus steam and fluff, of course :) 
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoy this!!

Wanda wakes up to an empty bed, hand reflexively reaching out, touching the unwrinkled sheets next to her, heart pounding in her chest at how cold the fabric feels. A quick assessment of her surroundings suggests it is morning, just enough light seeping in to illuminate the chairs in the corner of the room  and the panoramic window displaying a surprisingly gloomy view, roiling dark clouds and fat, impatient raindrops marring the usually serene waters. This still doesn’t explain why she’s alone. So Wanda scrambles out of the covers, feet carrying her around the bed and through the door, scarlet developing around her fists, weaving in and out of her knuckles in time with her erratic, shallow breaths.

“Good morning, Wanda.”

The voice cuts through the dense fog in her head, twisting the fear into confusion, her eyes blinking several times as she stares at him, and then it all fades, a smile rising to pinch the corners of her eyes. “You look comfy.” Vision, actually Vision not her blonde pseudo-husband, is stretched out on the couch, legs at an incline so his feet can lay on the armrest, and his head supported by three pillows, perfectly angled and stacked in a formation that he swears eliminates any chance of a crick or twinge in the neck after prolonged reading. What’s most indicative of his comfort, beyond the alluring ease of his body sinking into the cushions, is the plush, loosely tied white robe contrasting gorgeously against his crimson skin .

“I am attempting to,” he sits up, placing a slip of paper in between the pages of his book, and she doesn't miss the glint of his wedding ring, a stray thought running through her head reiterating that gold really isn't the right metal for his hand. To her surprise one more observation follows, lagging behind the first, but with far more surety and a pulse of excitement behind it than the first: they’ll fix the ring next time. Wanda freezes at the thought but his voice breaks her reverie, redirecting her attention to the shy lift of his lips, “embrace a life of luxury. Out of scientific curiosity as the brochures laud these robes as heavenly.” 

Everything else melts away as she shakes her head at him, always enjoying his adorable attempts to rationalize what he deems might be embarrassing behaviors. “That's a very noble sacrifice you're making, Helen would be proud.” He swings his legs, no doubt intending to stand and greet her, but Wanda finds she wants this moment to last, wants the image of him carefree and being devoured by the fluffiest robe she's ever seen to be seared into her memory forever. A gentle push of scarlet flies to his feet, holding him and his amused smile in place long enough for her to close the distance between them, crawling over his body, encouraging him to lay back down so she can rest comfortably against him, her head on his shoulder, his arm naturally descending to embrace her, pulling her snugly against him. “What’s your conclusion?”

A kiss to the top of her head buys him time to compose himself, make his voice as scientifically neutral as possible as he says, “I do not have an adequate quantitative measure of the construct of heavenly, but it is very, very soft.” 

Wanda nuzzles into his chest, confirming it is a luxuriously soft robe.  “I’d say it’s heavenly.” The featherlight touch of his fingertips against her arm, looping up and then down, soothes her soul, drowning out the last of the worries clinging to her mind from waking up alone. “So how’d your secret agent adventures go last night?”

“Very well. I was able to eliminate eight more of the potential culprits from our list. Fortuitously the boat operator was included in that, ” he pauses long enough to point out the back window to the pelting rain, “due to the storm all outdoor activities were canceled this morning, including our boat tour. Um,” his fingers tap against her arm as he processes the information, pushing the finer details away so that he can summarize the main points. “Oh yes, I also sent in our mission update to Captain Rogers and he seems satisfied with our progress, though did caution that it would be ideal for us not to require any additional time for the mission, as this room is quite expensive.”

Beyond the word Rogers, Wanda’s mind stops registering information, instead focusing in on the unspoken implications of their canceled boat tour. Excitedly she wiggles free of his grip just enough to rotate her body, resting her chin on his chest so she can stare at the intoxicating way relaxation softens his features, his youthfulness and innocence front and center when logical analysis is not required. “Hold up, let me rephrase this.”

“Please.”

“One, you’re awesome,”

“Naturally.”

There is no reason to acknowledge his response, the smirk on his face a touch too cocky for her to encourage further sass, “And two, because of this storm we have,” she sends a wisp of scarlet into his mind to check his internal clock, feeling far too lazy to turn to look at the palm-tree shaped clock hanging on the wall behind her, “an hour and a half of uninterrupted, mission-free relaxation before our next obligations?”

Sparks dance along her skin when a second finger joins the lazy pattern he’s drawing on her arm. “Correct. And I ordered room service,” a head tilt towards the table is probably trying to show her the food, but Wanda refuses to look anywhere but the brilliant blue of his eyes, “so you could eat before our next excursion.”

Wanda grins up at him, “Perfect. Anything else?”

The gears in his eyes swirl with thought, his lips pursing and fingers halting as he contemplates. “Yes, actually. Since I established an alibi for the dance instructor, I removed you from the ‘ote’a class this afternoon and scheduled a hot stone massage instead, if that is acceptable?”

A long, exaggerated sigh of disapproval pairs with the shake of her head, but she’s unable to keep a straight face at the brief shot of terror in his eyes. “You monster.”

His face breaks into a toothy grin, a quick, joyous laugh falling pleasantly around her as he hugs her closer. “It is still work related,” a requirement in their mission contract that spending money on luxuries had to have a purpose, a requirement Vision respects far more than she does since she’s tempted to override Vision’s report and tell Steve they could use another six days for the mission. “Apparently the masseuse is the resort gossip.” 

“Good to know. So, what,” just in case the suggestive tone of her voice is far too subtle for him, Wanda emphasizes her question by walking her fingers up his chest, caressing the sensitive edges where his skin transitions into vibranium, the twitch of his muscles under her finger a promising sign, “will we, two young, energetic newlyweds do with our free time,” she drags her finger down his chest one more time, following the edge of his robe until she hits the belt, and then finishes with what she hopes is the most strategic part of her plan, “hubby?”

“Well,” her eyes narrow. That word with his matter-of-fact tone is the single most disparaging sign that he is about to expertly, for the sake of the mission, extinguish the torrid yearning filling her body, “there are some incongruences in the files that I wish for you to examine and some strategic planning for the day.”

Her slightly threatening, “Vizh…” is met with an infuriatingly innocent, “Wanda.” And then her face meets the mounds of the cushion as he phases away, her body sinking into the couch, a sigh released into the fabric ends up engulfing her face in an uncomfortable heat. If this continues for the duration of the mission she’s pretty certain she’ll explode.  Another “Wanda?” falls on her ears, this one laced with an impish delight that makes her swear that she’ll get him back after the mission. Somehow.

She channels all of her frustration into her, “What?” 

“Are you going to join me in strategizing?” The question catches her off guard, well not so much the question but the general direction of where it is coming from. Wanda lifts her neck, checking the untouched mission files stacked next to her breakfast, and then turns her head towards the bedroom where she finds him leaning against the doorway. The facetious smirk on his lips tugs her body from the couch, feet hovering just above the ground, anticipation knotting in her stomach as she swelters under his stare. “I am _only_ in this robe.”

Wanda’s breath is shaky as she inhales, fighting the giddiness of her increased pulse to remain as stoic as possible, forcing her smile down to give him a serious, reproachful, and mildly offended, “Are you really going to lead me on for days and then steal my signature move?” **

A nonchalant shrug sends a shiver down her spine, this easy-going, playful side of him so closely guarded that it surfaces rarely, only if they are alone and absolutely certain of no interruptions or unintended guests. It is, for lack of a better term as her mind crashes down around her, hot. His smile broadens as he starts to speak, each word latching to her feet, pulling her one step closer until her hand hovers over the belt loosely tied around his waist, “Is it as effective on you as it is on me?”  All she manages is a nod in answer to his question, her thoughts scrambling, images and letters intermixing in ways that she can’t verbalize or even make sense of, but finally, the touch of his lips to her ear as he whispers a deep, satisfied “Good” centers the cacophony into one unified thought of _hell yes_ before she crushes her lips to his, sending scarlet tendrils to untie the robe as she shoves him backwards onto the bed.

 

When Vision mentioned the masseuse was the resort gossip, Wanda assumed gathering information would be easy, requiring little to no mental effort on her part, allowing her mind to stay trapped in the memories of blissfully cool vibranium against her skin, the rhythm of the rain on the windows harmonizing the movements of their bodies, and the way his breathing would become ragged when she dragged the edges of her ring across his skin. But this woman’s penchant for gossip clearly does not extend to Wanda, her terse, two word responses deflecting every prodding question with as much, if not more, efficiency than the Black Widow herself. Briefly Wanda wonders if the masseuse is undercover as well, though nothing she can glean from the surface of her mind confirms this.

Wanda switches her tactic, deciding that perhaps it’s best to just get the woman to talk about herself and then transition into more pressing topics. “How long have you worked here?”

 “Six months.” 

“Do you enjoy it?”

The woman, not even willing to share her name beyond _I am your masseuse today,_ begins to remove the stones, placing them into a heated bin. “It’s nice.” She grabs a bottle and squirts it’s contents onto her hands, running them up Wanda’s back with some experimental pushes and twists. “Pressure okay?”

“Yeah, that’s good.” Wanda closes her eyes, allowing just a second to enjoy the massage before pressing onward. “Any advice on the best thing to do on the island?”

Before the woman answers, Wanda is kicking herself, pretty certain she knows the answer, and, sadly, she is right.  “A massage.” Each swipe up her back ends with the heel of the masseuse’s hand in-between Wanda’s shoulder blades and it both hurts and feels amazing, a phantom pressure lingering on her skin as the pattern begins again. “You’re tense.”  Wanda would not describe herself currently as tense, she thinks, a bit stressed about the mission but no more than usual. Given the masseuse doesn’t want to answer her often, Wanda shrugs, not sure what to add even if it might hurt her chances of breaking the complex code that’s locking away the resort secrets. “Marriage troubles?”

Now her body tenses, goosebumps developing along her skin as she tries to figure out how to proceed, closing her eyes and attempting to picture what Natasha would do in this situation.  The first lesson was to feel out the room and the person (or people) in it. Lesson two was to  embrace the character, commit yourself and act in accordance with the character’s perceptions of reality. Since the masseuse brought it up, Wanda decides it means she has something to share, so she pushes aside Wanda Maximoff and embraces the exuberance of the honeymooning Ana Williams. “Oh no, not at all. We’re so so in wedded bliss and just enjoying this new, exciting life, I mean,” she struggles to pick her head up out of the hole in the table, craning her neck to flash a conspiratorial smile at the masseuse, who frowns at the action, “like he cannot keep his hands off me. This morning, oh my God, was amazing.”

Footsteps and a friendly _Maeva_ floats in through the cracked door, the other masseuse at the spa checking on a reservation. The woman stops the massage to shut the door, waiting an eternally long minute for something to happen. When nothing else occurs, she comes back, continuing the massage, the press of her hand developing a gentler, sympathetic feeling. “Amora has her eyes on him.”

Wanda places her face back into the cushioned hole, a celebratory grin on her lips as she prepares to finally get enough information to convince Vision that they need to take the Enchantress down right away. But she has to remember to be Ana, releasing a flippant sigh with her, “She can stare all she wants but Simon only has eyes for me.” 

A disagreeing click of the woman’s tongue fills the void of silence. “Not when she’s involved,” the gentle strokes of the massage transform into deeper, more meaningful, and slightly painful, paths, “every man that touches foot on this island,” she pauses, “and some women too, fall prey to her spell.” Now that the woman is talking it’s like a crack in a dam, shooting up higher and higher until the wall splits and the water comes pouring out. “I only took this job here because everyone talks about the romance and the steamy flings with co-workers. But since she’s been here no man is interested in anyone but her.” A disgusted scoff emphasizes the twisting of her fist into Wanda’s side, “Even sweet little Kenneth worships the ground she walks on.” Her hands stop moving, a thoughtful pause and then her twisting fist of doom descends on Wanda’s back again, “He might be the most infatuated, which is a pity, I’d let him be my concierge.” The comment is said with a tone that is the equivalent of an elbow to her ribs, a raised eyebrow, and a half smile that says _Get it, get it_?

Wanda sorts the information as quickly as she can, dumping it into bins based on useless information, entertaining but not mission-specific, mission-specific, and damning evidence. Currently the masseuse’s tepid love life is not registering as useful, so she tries to guide the woman’s thoughts back to what Amora has planned. “But you don’t understand, Simon has only ever loved me. She’s just wasting her time.”

She expects an immediate response, but the silence that descends is far worse. “Lust can easily blind love.” The timer for the massage dings, yet the woman keeps her hands on Wanda’s back, a deep, defeated exhale mixing with the vanilla incense in the air. “Do not allow him to wander the resort alone anymore or else you will end up like the others.”

A towel sweeps over Wanda’s back, collecting the remnants of the oil, and then the woman leaves the room, pointing to a sign with directions on how to exit the spa and how tipping your masseuse is appreciated, though not required. Wanda slips back into her dress, frowning at the disheveled strands of her wig, wondering if it was from the massage or if she missed them this morning, fingers combing through her hair until it looks acceptable. She rummages through her purse, places a twenty on the wooden table housing all the oils, and walks out of the spa. 

According to Vision’s hurried instructions as they left their room, he’s supposed to be in the main building of the resort competing in a thrilling shuffleboard tournament hosted by the Director of Entertainment and the Director of Hiring. Yet he’s standing outside the spa, hands casually hooked in his pockets, staring out at the calm, teal expanse of the ocean. Wanda does her best to sneak up on him, stepping from toe to heel, Natasha forcing both of them to walk in their vacation shoes for a week to learn the exact angle, force, and movement that would elicit any sound. Luckily her sandals for today were already quiet, but she knows if she rolls her ankle to the right the buckle will jingle and Vision will pick up on it. She’s a foot away when he shifts his hips, her own body freezing and her breath captive in her lungs as he resettles his position. In perfect synchronization, her arms wrap around his waist and she whispers, “Hello, darling,” thrilled at the tiny, almost imperceptible constriction of his muscles.

Completely against mission protocol, his density drops, torso incorporeal long enough for him to swivel around and face her, his body solidifying under her palms as he cups her face, encouraging her up onto her toes for a warm, cheerful peck. His hands remain, thumbs skimming the curves of her cheeks as he talks, “How was your massage?”

“Wonderful.” A minimalist smile touches the left corner of his mouth. “Did you win us a free dinner?”

The shake of his head conveys his disappointment and even though he’s disguised she can make out the small anomaly in the furrow of his brow where the Mindstone lays. “Once I reached the semifinals it became alarmingly clear I was not in the same competitive league.” There’s a haunted quality to his voice, losing is not an experience he’s well-acquainted with, and clearly he is unhappy with his failure. “An elderly gentleman,” he stops, brow wrinkling further, “hopefully I am using the phrase correctly, swept the floor with me in three turns.”

“Sounds rough, it’s a good thing we have a nice wine tasting next.”

“Actually,” an uncharacteristic bite of his lower lip is intriguing yet mildly concerning, “an opportunity arose for us to pursue a lead.”

The unpredictable nature of missions never really bothers her, a feeling of rightness in the chaos of following leads and switching paths, and yet, Wanda finds herself marginally disappointed at missing out on reclining on the beach and sipping wine. “This better be about Amora.”

“Oh, yes, it is,” Vision drops his hands, stepping out of her embrace before lacing their fingers together and directing her to follow his lead along a pink stone path. “I was speaking with her once I was eliminated from the tournament,” information that does not sit well with Wanda, mind unhelpfully filling with images of all the ways the woman likely fawned over him. “I informed her we found her performance thrilling and she offered to give us a private tour of backstage.”

Wanda’s feet grind to a halt, heels digging into the sand trapped in the grooves between the stones. “Wait.” Confusion fills his eyes as he studies her. “Did she actually invite both of us, or just you?”

“I informed her I was going need time to find you after your massage.”  The fact that he doesn’t actually answer her question either means he’s not willing to answer it or that he is so blissfully ignorant of the implications of the “private tour” that he believes he’s actually answering her with relevant information. The tilt of his head as he waits for her response implies the latter option.

“Great.” They start walking again, her mind churning through all the ways to approach the situation, her biggest fear at the moment is arriving and finding a naked woman waiting for them. “So what’s the plan?”

 

“Ready for this?”

Vision’s quiet, “Not really,” mirrors her own discontent with the very high probability she’s going to have to watch him get groped again. 

“Just,” she catches his wrist before he knocks on the door, “no kissing or touching, please, but still sell it.”

A frown quickly drops his lips as his eyes flick to the side, a tightness building in muscles under her hand and she thinks she may have offended him. The painfully unemotional response confirms his displeasure, sending a sharp pang of regret into her heart, “You speak as if I am excited for this.” Without waiting for her response he phases his wrist from her grip and knocks on the door. Thankfully they are not greeted by a naked woman, instead Wanda gets to savor the surprise and crushing disappointment on Amora’s face when she sees that Vision is not alone.

Amora, however, recovers quite quickly, lips easing into her perpetually rapacious smirk as she steps back from the door, “Welcome, Simon,” her eyes flick towards Wanda but she otherwise makes no acknowledgement of her presence, “please come on in.”

The room is smaller than Wanda imagined, assuming that someone like the Enchantress would demand a lavish set-up, not that it’s not luxurious with a couch against the wall draped in a white fur blanket, and several silky emerald robes, matching the one she is currently wearing hanging along the wall, it's just not lavish. There is also large mirror and a counter, a chilled bottle of champagne and a cluster of candles that no one would ever put out with the intent of being alone.

A giggle catches Wanda’s attention, head whipping around to see Amora’s hand braced on Vision’s chest. He glances up from the woman to meet Wanda’s eyes, a terrified and questioning dilation of his pupils matches the unease he’s sending into her mind, asking her to please move quickly.

“So, Simon,” the way she sighs the _Si_  and lowers her voice to draw out the _m_ makes Wanda’s skin crawl, but she ignores it as best she can, inspecting the items on the table, sliding a dime sized camera into a corner and propping another up on a book, hoping they’re placed well enough to get information. “What do you think?”

“It is lovely, just as you promised.” The stutter in his voice betrays how flustered he is and Wanda ventures another glance over her shoulder, bile rising into her throat at the bold dip of Amora’s hands along his hips, traveling back and Wanda, unfortunately, knows exactly where her hands are going. She has to swallow her rage, sending Vision a pained thumbs up of encouragement.  “You suggested a tour of the backstage area as well?”

Amora grabs both his hand and wrist as she pulls him across the room, “Yes, there are many fascinating and poorly lit places out there.” They pause in the doorway, the woman seeming to remember that Wanda is there as well, “You are welcome,” she chokes on the insincerity of the word, “to join, though it is terribly boring.”

Wanda knows it’s part of the plan, a reluctantly suggested strategy by Vision to allow Wanda time alone in the dressing room, but she still finds her mind railing against it. A slow practiced inhale clears most of the concern ricocheting in her mind enough for her voice to take on an innocent, carefree nature, “Oh that sounds boring, I’ll just stay here. Have fun darling.”

The woman yanks Vision out of the room, and Wanda brings her hands to her face, muffling the frustrated, mostly silent scream. One more long breath in and longer exhale and she continues placing cameras and recorders around the room, hands running over the sequined leotards and gem-lined corsets hanging in the wardrobe. How this woman can prance around in these confounds her, fairly certain that she would feel too ridiculous to even leave the room. Another camera goes in the wardrobe, just to be safe, and Wanda moves back to the mirror.

The outer left edge is lined with setlists, detailing the songs and order of events for the act. Each night has a different audience participation, Saturday is newlyweds, Sunday older (by older the paper defines it as married more than 5 years) couples, Monday single men, Tuesday single women, Wednesday and Thursday she has off, and Friday is apparently a dating game night, the paper asking for single and attractive people to be paired up.  Wanda follows the flow of the papers up, the top of the mirror containing an array of photos of the island, green mountains rising above blue waters, an assortment of tropical fish, and a shrine surrounded by asymmetrical white flowers. The right side of the mirror makes her pause, a sharp intake of breath punctuates the touch of her finger to a picture of her and Vision...well Ana and Simon. Their faces are flanked by printouts of the other two couples, the photos being the ones all guests were required to take at the entrance of the resort under an archway of palm leaves and orange, vibrant flowers.

Wanda closes her eyes, strengthening her mental connection with Vision long enough to assess his status and if she has time. A snarl contorts her face at the distinctive feeling of eager hands pawing at his chest and the, thankfully, strong revulsion spreading to every corner of his being and the dizzying speed with which his mind is working to counter each advance. Haltingly, so as not to rip them, she eases the pictures from the mirror, turning them over, hoping something damning can be found. She’s not certain if it is damning, but it's at least a piece of evidence to add. Each picture has an annotation on the back, couple #1 says _Good for show but otherwise will be useless. He cheated on her already._ Couple # 2 _Possible but very private, will have to assess at time of show._ And then the picture of them, _Best option based on available media and details on reservation._  Wanda quickly removes her phone from her purse, snapping a picture of each annotation.

A loud, “I do believe Ana and I have a reservation soon,” is the agreed upon warning that they are coming back. Wanda rushes to re-adhere the pictures to the mirror, hands falling to pick up the first item she touches, wincing as her fingers grip the teeth of a shark jaw, but she pulls it to her chest just as they walk back into the room and pretends to inspect it.

“Oh,” the sweet, threatening drawl of Amora’s voice prickles along her skin, “That is my favorite, a fine ma'o mauri specimen.” The brief attention given to Wanda is promptly removed, instead refocused on Vision, a leisurely caress along his shoulder as she talks, “Have I told you my love of swimming with them,” her hand keeps moving, down his bicep with a light squeeze, dipping into the bend of his elbow, and falling down his forearm, “it is invigorating." 

Besides the unwelcome, yet expected physical contact, the first, infuriating observation Wanda makes is the ruffled nature of Vision’s shirt, his first two buttons had already been undone (Wanda has to keep insisting he not button his shirts up all the way) but currently four more buttons are free, his shirt hanging open for what, under other circumstances, would be a very agreeable view of his chest. “Darling,” when he finally meets her gaze she can almost see the gears. A quick inspection of his available skin reveals that it is developing a tinge of red, making the frantic worry twitching his lips much more understandable beyond the unwanted (she hopes) advances of the woman. Whatever is happening needs to end before he loses his disguise and compromises the mission.  “You look like you’ve gotten too much sun today.” Wanda rolls her eyes, sending an annoyed and commiserable look towards Amora, “He just always insists he’s not as pale as he is and just refuses to wear sunscreen. Should have seen him when we went to the Outer Banks last year, just a bright red walking lobster.”

The comment backfires immediately, Amora lifting his arm to inspect it before caressing his hand, focusing mainly on area surrounding his wedding ring, “You know Simon, I have the best lotion in my quarters, if you’d,” her finger climbs up his wrist, trailing the vein he’s factored into his disguise,  “like to come with me.”

“Oh, I-” Vision steps away, struggling slightly out of the Enchantress’ grip and slides his hand into Wanda’s. “My dear, I believe we are late for snorkeling. Amora,” a sultry curve develops in her lips as she sits back on the counter, legs crossing and her sandaled foot reaching out to glance his hip, “it was a pleasure, as always.”

He begins to leave, an urgency in his step that Wanda should follow, but instead she brings him back with a “Darling,” and an unsubtle press of her body against his, fingers weaving into his hair, and a ravenous kiss that is hopefully a clear enough sign that she's not going to let anyone else have  him. “We should head out.” 

She sends an apologetic smile laced with warning towards Amora, who matches her warning with a wicked smirk and a simpering wave directed at Vision. “Enjoy.  I’m sure we’ll bump into each other soon, Simon.”

Wanda glares at the confident woman before they exit the room and make their way back outside, a gentle, barely audible  “Your powers,” bringing her back from her seething, fingers closing quickly to extinguish the red rising from her palms. “Also,” they move towards an alcove covered by an untamed bush, his hand pushing aside the leaves as they step into the covered nook, his disguise flickering three times before resetting, “was the walking lobster comment necessary?” 

The glare Wanda had been using on Amora shifts to Vision, “Was letting her unbutton your shirt necessary?”

The long winded defense building in his mind is discarded by the tightening line of his lips, a curt nod, and a “Fair point.”  

 

 

 

 

Their nightly complimentary bottle of Dom Perignon sits empty between them, feet dangling over the edge of their private deck into the calm tropical water. The nebulous puffs of the Milky Way streak across the deep violet sky, sharp points of light spread through every inch of the expanse above them reflecting off the placid water. It is one of the most beautiful things Wanda has seen and she wishes the rest of their night mimicked the tranquility. Instead her fingers curl even tighter into a fist, nails digging into her palm as she tries hard not to yell at him. “Why can’t we just arrest her?” This conversation has been circling like a vulture over her sanity, round and round, since they returned from dinner.

“Circumstantial evidence alone is not enough to,” he pinches the bridge of his nose for about the twentieth time tonight, an action he’s never been one to use during an argument but clearly he’s picked it up from somewhere, “potentially ruin a life. We still have two days to confirm our suspicions, determine her modus operandi, and discover where the missing couples have gone.”

“The M.O. is pretty clear, Vizh,” to reiterate each point she throws up a corresponding finger, “first, she pre-selects three potential victims.”

A weak, exhausted “But we do not know if she herself chooses them, and I believe there is evidence that Ken-,” is ignored as Wanda proceeds. 

“Second,” a hard edge to her voice hopefully makes it abundantly clear she is not looking for more of his input right now, “from those three she picks the winner; third, she invites them to private parties.” Their exclusive dinner that night had been delicious and intimate, a secluded, candlelit meal in a tucked away alcove overlooking the ocean during which she managed a small victory, of sliding her foot up his leg without him flinching noticeably in surprise, instead the action was met with an infinitesimal quirk of his lips. Then it all went to hell. Amora joined them, fingers combing slowly through Vision’s hair, giggling at everything he said, thanking him for the _fun_ afternoon, and telling Wanda she should keep an eye on him, a threat more than a suggestion. “Fourth, I’m assuming is the full seduction; and then fifth, probably some succubus style killing.” What’s most infuriating is that Wanda can logically identify the holes in the case, is well aware simply arresting her doesn’t actually fulfill the mission, but for some reason doesn’t care. Vision releases a drawn out, descending sigh, a true tell-tale sign of his waning patience, and pinches his nose again. “Why do you keep doing that?” 

“I,” he waves his hands, eyes going blank as he searches through the internet for the right phrase, “have a niggling pressure.” 

Wanda almost laughs, but only lets a strained smirk betray her sardonic amusement. “That’s called a headache and I’m getting one too, thanks.” 

This time he doesn’t pinch his nose, instead pressing his palm to the bottom of his forehead, his long fingers climbing up into his hair. “It is unpleasant, like being too deep underwater.” 

That is a different type of headache, one, unfortunately, she knows all too well. “You might just be a lightweight.  The mojitos were really strong at dinner and we went through this,” Wanda shakes the empty champagne bottle at him, “pretty fast.” 

“Doctor Cho has established my metabolism is too active for alcohol to affect me.”

Wanda's at a loss of what to offer, fairly certain that forcing him to take ibuprofen would be futile. “Maybe you're just stressed or,” she throws her hands up, trying to think of something else, voice cracking in frustration as she gives up, having lost her will to fight about twenty minutes ago, “I don't know. Can we just go over again what she’s been saying to you?”

“If it’s necessary,” as if the attention of Amora is not already wearing her patience thin, the way Vision keeps dodging the question, offering as little detail as possible, is infuriating. He pinches the bridge of his nose again and Wanda clenches her fists tighter in her attempt to not swat his hand away. “She is telling me in quite explicit and unwelcome detail what would happen if I,” he pauses, inhaling loudly before continuing, “wished to partake of her company, away from you.”

“Any clues or information that we could use? Like what exactly is she saying?” It’s getting harder to not just dive into his head, pull out the information so she can look it over herself, but even with their fairly constant mental link, there are some actions that cross the line, some things that are unforgivable.  Which means that no matter how much it feels like a knife to her heart, Vision doesn’t want to share this and she has to respect that.  Wanda switches to a different method, tossing aside her anger for a moment. “It’s just,” she touches his shoulder gently, trying to convey that she understands, that she knows this is difficult, has been picking up on the unrest growing in his mind since the pool, and that she is here for him. “It’s just the only way to end this is to figure out how she’s doing it, what she’s doing. You’re the only one that has that information. Is there anything, what she’s said, what’s she done, that is, I don’t know, odd? Concerning? More so than the fact I’m going to break her hand if she touches your ass again?” This receives a breathy exhale that might be categorized as a laugh, a nervous one filled with discomfort, but a laugh, nonetheless.

Vision swings his feet through the water, eyes following as the droplets form broken arches before slipping back into the darkness. Another experimental splash, a whirl of his irises, and she can feel his mind focus, an eerie calm descending around them forming bumps along her arms as he slowly straightens his spine, hand falling from his face, lips pursed and body taut, a realization so strong Wanda can almost see it forming in the air in front of him. He shakes his head as if clearing away a haze. Wanda can feel his thoughts reorganizing and solidifying as he turns towards her. Then he speaks and the words create a thousand pound weight in her stomach, threatening to pull her through the wooden planks and to the bottom of the ocean. “Her words are empty,  just sordid suggestions but whenever she touches me it is like rushing water, an unquenchable thirst for the ocean, and then this pressure.”

Wanda stares at him, watches as his lips move in silent conversation, attempting to figure out something else to say, and it worries her, that he cannot seem to describe this more, his words always meticulous and direct. “We’re arresting her, now.”

A deep inhale and a not-quite-sighing exhale disappears into the dark waters, Vision’s fingers prying her hand open, sliding his own against her palm and giving a reassuring squeeze. “One more night of building the case. That is all I ask.”

One more night is not only a fair compromise between her need for immediacy and his preferred sluggish pace, but it is also logically the best option. Yet all Wanda can seem to think about is Amora lurking in the shadows, fine-tipped, golden shellacked nails waiting to curl into his shirt, and she hates herself for it, is queasy at the what-ifs circling in her mind, suddenly coming face to face with the realization that maybe now that other women are interested, Vision won’t find her suitable, that maybe he enjoys a rush of water in a touch. “I'm just worried about you. We don't know what she's capable of and-.”

“That is all the more reason to continue collecting information.” 

She's glad it's dark, her eyes dampening in anger, warring with herself over what's best for the mission and what's best for her, knowing he should leave, that really the best method is to use him as a bait, draw the Enchantress in and then pounce, but also desperately wanting to cling to him and force him to remain safe by her side. “What happens if you run into her tonight?”

The answer is not immediate and she appreciates the care he's putting into the response, his voice soft yet serious when he finally speaks. “I am certainly not thrilled at the notion of interacting with Amora again, but if it did occur it might illuminate what is happening. We are on a mission and at some point we will have to confront her.” When she doesn’t respond he tugs her hand, the feeling of his eyes boring into the side of her head uncomfortable enough, pleading enough to turn her neck and make eye contact. The disguise fades away, crimson skin and caring, empathetic gears rotating counterclockwise in his eyes as he cups her cheek with his free hand. “Wanda?”

“What if she captures you?”

Vision shrugs, a smile toying with the corners of his mouth. “I believe I am a fairly proficient fighter, so the probability of such an occurrence is quite low.”

“This isn't a joke, Vizh.” She reaches up, laying her hand over his. “What if you just disappear like the others?”

A tingle shoots through her arm as he phases his hand from beneath hers, shifting his body to draw her to him, arms encircling her, smothering her with his essence, their bodies pressed so close she can feel the rhythmic thumping of his synthetic heart against her own. “There is no need for concern because unlike the others, I have you.” He places a tender kiss to her lips before resting his forehead against hers, the blissful press of the stone against her skin grounding her and his quiet, steadfast, “I love you, Wanda Maximoff,” eschewing her irrational doubts.

“I love you too.”

A reluctant sigh brushes against her lips, his eyelids scrunching shut, “It is getting late.”

“I can join you.”

“You need sleep.”

She touches the vibranium on his chin, whispering, “You could stay, a bit longer.”

Another kiss and she needs him to stay, “I am eager for this mission to end so that I can stay,” he flicks a strand of hair, a slightly exaggerated frown on his face breaking the seriousness of the moment, “I have found I prefer you as a brunette.” 

Wanda grins, unable to resist his surprisingly expert shift in mood, allowing him to pull her from the shaky ground of their disagreement to the solid footing of their relationship, “So when you told me I’m gorgeous as a blonde it was just a front?”

“Would you have preferred me to inform you that I discovered blondes are not my type?”

The revolution of her eyes happens instantly, her hand squeezing between their bodies to give him an amused shove to the chest, “Well they're not my cup of tea either. Now please, go get enough information so we can actually enjoy this trip.”

The transformation from red to pale skin, bald, shiny head to blonde hair is interesting to watch, but Wanda finds she is through with staring at this husband. He kisses her forehead, instructing her to “Get some rest,” and then he stands, leaving her alone on the deck.

She remains sitting, knees curled up to her chest for ten minutes before returning to their pile of paperwork. Slowly her hands sort through the folders, placing pictures and documents on the ground to form a threadless web, trying to find something they haven’t considered yet, another angle or another person to investigate. When nothing pops out at her and the grainy video feed from Amora's dressing room remains unhelpfully empty, she moves to the bathroom, cringing at the itchy weave on her head and the way the blonde washes out her face, fingers longing to tear it out and let her hair be free. She resists, washes her face and brushes her teeth and then pauses at the sight of Vision’s button up shirt hanging on the door. Curiosity forms in her mind, three excited steps to the left and she plucks at the shirt, lifting it to her face and inhaling, grinning at the intoxicating and unmistakable coolness of vibranium mixing with a more neutral, subdued scent that always reminds her of spring cleaning. Wanda strips off her dress, grabbing the shirt from the hanger and sliding her arms into it, fastening three buttons to keep it on, caring only about being encased in his presence.   

As she steps into the bedroom, her eyes guiltily slide to the scattered papers on the floor, but then a book catches her attention, precariously perched on the edge of the nightstand. She runs her fingers over the cover, a Tiare Apetahi in full bloom on the front. With a shrug she decides this could be useful, maybe, at least Vision has been reading it, and throws herself into the pile of pillows on the bed.

She flips through the pages, skimming over the stories. The tale of the flower and the cheating husband is first, the iteration in the book slightly different from what Kenneth told them, but close enough that she doesn’t feel the need to read it too indepthly.  The next story is about a jilted suitor who stole a necklace, killing the woman’s fiance and fleeing.  Eventually he was cornered and killed by the late fiance’s dog, the paw print and outline of the necklace still imbedded in the rock. The next chapter is just as tragic, telling of a yellow lizard who was born to confused human parents (she doesn’t blame them for being confused, if she gave birth to an egg there’d be lots of questions). Sadly the lizard grew too big, too terrifying and was exiled from his home, swimming through open water in search of a new island, but he died from exhaustion and was found by fishermen.   

Vision’s bookmark is tucked into the pages of the next story, a sticky note with a question mark next to the illustration introducing the chapter, a gorgeous jet-black haired woman with piercing eyes and a white flower clutched in her hand. Wanda feels a strange sense of deja vu, a familiarity with those eyes but can't quite place it, clearly neither could Vision. The first paragraph describes the woman, Paahonu vahiné, the goddess of the island, a beauty so divine no one can compare. Apparently she was engaged and her fiance left for war but while he was gone she grew tired of being alone. According to legend she bewitched a shark and rode it to another island (a power Wanda thinks would be useful though a bit limited) where she met a strong, handsome warrior and fell in love. Unfortunately her fiance found out and sent two guards to collect her, placing a curse on her so that any man who kisses her turns into a fish. Dismayed and irate, she left her lover to return to her own island, and in his grief, her lover fell so hard to the ground that the imprint of his knees is still etched in the foundation of the island.

There are handwritten notes in the margin, far too sloppy to be Vision’s (plus the fact Vision would never deface a book), but also familiar, just like the eyes of the goddess. Wanda sends a wisp of scarlet towards the table, her phone hovering into her hand, her fingers immediately pulling up the pictures from Amora’s dressing room. The handwriting matches, whoever wrote in the book also annotated the pictures. Wanda puts her phone down, skimming the notes in the book in hopes it'll reveal who wrote them.

Most of the comments are about the curse, such as the type of fish the men would turn into (an unhelpful _something tropical and local?_ ), whether it is a peck to the cheeks or must be to the lips ( _lips_ ), and a note about an addendum from another legend. Wanda flips through the book, searching for more notes, and finds the addendum on the second to last page. It cites a lesser known legend from the commune of Vaiaau of how Paahonu vahiné returned to her island in search of a cure to the curse. Another sentence follows but it is in a different language, though two words stand out, Tiare Apetahi. Whomever had the book before has attempted to translate some of the words, multiple lines underscoring certain words with arrows pointed at potential translations   _devoured? Consumed? Touched? Rare? Unique? flawed?_. Wanda has to turn the book upside down to follow the flow of the writing, everything jumbling together without any conclusion. 

She thinks back through everything, to the information in the folders, the interactions between Vision and Amora and then she stops, heart skipping a beat as her mind circles a fleeting, ephemeral thought. Vision described the Enchantress’ touch as a rush of water and a thirst for the ocean. Wanda turns back to the picture, returning to the main room and laying the book on the ground next to Amora’s folder. There’s a resemblance but nothing uncanny or damning, and Wanda growls in frustration, scarlet sending the book flying across the room as she paces. 

Clearly it is Amora, it has to be, Wanda admits she might be a bit biased, but all the signs are there, yet they are still missing key information. Where are the couples going? It’s something Vision keeps annoyingly bringing up, it is not enough to determine who is committing the act, they have to know the details. She returns to the folders, desperately searching for another connection between them all, yes they all attended the show, they all went to the pool, they all experienced the seduction of the Enchantress, but there has to be something else. Wanda’s eyes scan the pages, studying their schedules and excursions, every moment of their trip, and then she lines up the files and starts comparing the list of personnel.

A knock startles her, scarlet twisting around her fingers as she cautiously approaches the door. She's assuming it's just that Vision forgot his key again and there are people watching so he can’t phase inside. When the door opens she’s met with a frighteningly serious face. “Kenneth?” 

“He’s gone with her, I tried to stop it, tried to keep her away, tried to reason with him, direct him back to your room, but she just, she just once she’s made up her mind you can’t stop her and she’s so convincing and-”

An icy chill runs up her spine, branching out to consume her entire body. An unhappy, authoritative “Kenneth,” freezes his body so she can grip his shoulders, staring hard into his slightly tearful eyes, “I need less pronouns, more names, and some specifics, please.” 

He nods, breathing quickly in and out, hands shaking less and less as he calms down. “Amora has taken your husband. That’s where the couples have been going, but we’re not allowed to talk about it or warn anyone.” 

“Where?” 

“The Tiare Apetahi.”

A deep breath centers her frenzied mind, lips settling into a serious and determined scowl. “Give me five minutes and then you’re coming with me.”  

Vision’s shirt is discarded immediately, replaced by black leggings and a jacket that are far more conducive to kicking ass. They were strongly encouraged to bring weapons, something Vision was staunchly against, but Wanda let Natasha pack the suitcase, figuring her experience lended itself to only the necessities being included. Yet when Wanda unzips that particular suitcase she is met with batons and stun guns, brass knuckles and daggers. The smoke bombs are cozy in the corner of the suitcase, she’s never actually used one before and has never really seen the purpose besides team building exercises, but with a shrug Wanda grabs two and places them in a bag at her hip.  

Wanda stops to look in the mirror, feeling slightly guilty at the rush of adrenaline coursing through her body, her fingers itching for action, hoping her confident nod and “You got this,” is enough to protect her from whatever is about to happen.  That's when the overhead lamp hits her hand, dots of light dancing on the ceiling from the ring, and she frowns at the expensive and too large diamond. Carefully she slides it off, a tendril of scarlet sending it to the table. This isn’t about saving her fake husband anymore, it’s about saving the man she loves.

Wanda saunters out the door, eyes burning with a flicker of scarlet. “Come on Kenneth.”

They sneak through the resort, following hidden pathways meant only for the workers, secret doorways and halls connecting all of the rooms to allow them to pop in and out as quickly as possible. Kenneth has an irritating habit of ducking behind things, terrified anytime someone looks at them, but Wanda never stops, forcing him to keep up with her. 

A large, metal door with a bright yellow caution sign stops their pursuit, Kenneth placing himself between her and the door. “Please, ma’am, you’re going to get killed.”

Wanda tilts her head, leveling the same stare she uses on Tony whenever he’s being a patriarchal, condescending ass. “I’ve got this.”

Reluctantly he steps aside, swiping his concierge badge to gain them access, but still holding up an annoyingly demanding finger to his lips, as if she is going to charge into the room like a pack of drunk elephants. They slip inside and for a moment she is disoriented by the stacks of boxes all around them, but when she peeks over the cardboard wall she realizes they came in a back door.  The moat and plant are still there, nothing different about them other than what might be a glint of metal near the base of the planter, but what is different is the presence of two other people.

One is her fairly-proficient-at-fighting boyfriend, who is currently sitting in a chair, seemingly unrestrained and yet struggling, his clenched fists and rippling muscles a sign that he’s fighting against something. His disguise is still in place, which makes the scene more unsettling as she’s not sure if he’s just finally gotten the hang of role-playing and is pretending to be a helpless man, or if somehow he really is restrained.  Emerald light fills the room, the same hue as what Wanda saw sparking from the Enchantress’ hands at the show, and the silky, dulcet intonations of his captor echo off the walls, trapped by the boxes to allow her a mostly clear understanding of what’s happening.

Amora approaches the chair with every ounce of swagger imaginable, hand poised and ready to touch Vision’s chest, “Tell me, Simon,” his name drips from her lips like honey, sticky and sweet, and Wanda hates it, “do you love your wife?” Wanda doesn’t hear anything, yet the woman smiles, a throw of her hands as if to say _oops_ , “My apologies, perhaps you’d like your voice back.” Her fingers brush his lips, lingering for several seconds before finishing the movement, her nail catching his bottom lip and dragging it down.  

A strained, “Yes, very much,” forces itself from his mouth and the woman’s smile only grows more predatory.

“Am I beautiful?” 

For his own sake, Wanda knows he needs to say yes, that he has to commit to the mission, whatever the hell that is at the moment, but a voice in the back of her mind fights back, hoping he resists. His honest and awed “Breathtaking” sinks her heart and she has to fight back the instinct to barrel into the room, hands blazing with scarlet, instead she takes a calm breath and attempts to remain logical. The mission is a failure if they don’t find out what happened to the missing couples and unfortunately Vision’s compliance, and her inaction, are cornerstones of that mystery. 

Amora circles the chair, hand trailing along his chest and shoulders, and all Wanda can think about right now is a documentary Vision made her watch the other week where poor, adorable seal pups rarely stood a chance against the sharks in the water.  When Amora returns to her place in front of him, she turns to look in their direction. Wanda ducks, pulling a wide-mouthed and trembling Kenneth down with her. Several minutes pass before Wanda slowly peeks over the boxes and is horrified to find Amora straddling Vision’s lap. Her power courses through her veins as she watches the woman trace her fingers along his jaw, burgeons from her body once she reaches his neck, and a spark of red singes a box, a tiny wisp of smoking rising into the air when an emerald mist crawls along his shoulders and enters his head causing Vision to flinch. Wanda is just about done with this, charging her powers around her hands but stops at the surprisingly wrathful betrayal in Amora’s voice. “You are a trickster. This is not your face.”

A slurred “No” from Vision sends an unexpected ache into her heart, the golden pulses of his mind more discombobulated, muddled, and afraid than she’s ever felt.

“Show me.” Nothing happens for several seconds and then his body ripples with the molecular manipulation, the reveal of his real self eliciting a gasp from Amora and a “What the fuck?” from Kenneth.  The woman stands up and circles the chair again, scrutinizing him, prodding at the vibranium plates on his head. “You are a god.”

“I am human.”

A scoff and the woman bends lower, bringing her face even with his, “Do not belittle yourself. I understand how human lovers distort reality but you,” she touches his chest again and Wanda feels a small, fluttering hope when Vision flinches again, “are magnificently inhuman.”  

Wanda turns towards Kenneth with a stern whispered instruction, “Stay here.”

“Kenneth!” rings through the building, his body perking up and Wanda freezes in confusion, a rope suddenly squeezing her body, pulled so tightly she can feel it cutting her skin.

All mirth is gone from his voice, replaced by a feigned apologetic lilt that is masking the almost prideful swell of his words. “It’s best if you don’t struggle, please.”

Kenneth shoves her forward, knocking several boxes over, stopping her from falling to the ground with a yank of the rope, a pained gasp falling from her mouth as she recovers. Vision’s wild eyes follow her approach, the gears rotating so quickly it's making her almost as dizzy as the pain racing through her arms, “Wanda?" 

She’ll admit it’s not the best time for banter, but instead of declarations of love or even saying his name she finds herself greeting him with a deadpanned, “Enough evidence yet?”  There’s a confused _Wanda?_ from above, but she ignores it, committed to maintaining eye contact with Vision for as long as a possible.

The smirk that valiantly strives to lift his lips is a good enough sign that he’s okay. “Most assuredly.”

“Can you move?” He tries, nose scrunching with the strain, but only manages a tiny, mournful shake of his head. “Awesome.” 

A whip of emerald curls around Wanda, dissolving the rope and causing her legs to give out, her knees smacking against the floor while she pulses her powers against the emerald strands which resist her, tightening around her each time she tries to break them.  “Kenneth,” Wanda glares at their concierge as he approaches Amora, a reverential, all encompassing adoration in his smile as he reaches out to grab her hand, but she pulls away from his touch in disgust.  “I have changed my mind.”

Kenneth stammers out a “What?” reaching out for her hand once more. The restraint around Wanda loosens a millimeter with her latest swipe of scarlet and Wanda smiles, repeating the action, thrilled when the emerald starts to dissolve.

“I have a new desire. This,” Amora’s hands return to Vision, stroking his cheeks with a rare tenderness, “is my new lover.”

“But,” Wanda can hear Kenneth’s panicked breathing, can feel his confusion and the vertigo of betrayal without delving into his mind, “Paahonu…”

Amora turns towards him, rage contorting her features into a hideous mask, “You do not deserve to utter my name.”

He flinches from her wrath, bowing slightly at the waist, eyes cast to the floor as he continues to speak, “My goddess, without her,” his face turns just enough to reveal the disgust contorting his features, finger pointed at Wanda, “it will not bloom. You can not have,” Kenneth chokes out the next word, bitterness and despair filling the single syllable as he glares at Vision, “him without the flower.”

The information gives Amora pause, contemplation pursing her lips. “Very well.” The emerald ropes constrict around Wanda, erasing all of her hard work as her own powers restart their crashing and breaking. The woman waves her fingers, curling them into a fist, pantomiming a yank and Wanda is drawn forward, the intrigued eyes of the goddess studying her much like a child with a magnifying glass, the noon sun, and an anthill. “Do you love him?”  

Wanda’s “Yes” is strong, confident, and threatening.

“Even,” Amora reaches out, placing a finger under Wanda’s chin and turning her face towards Vision’s worried eyes, “like this.”

The ropes start to loosen again, though Wanda tries to remain still, not wanting to draw attention to her impending freedom. She smiles at Vision before answering, “I love him even more like this.”

 Surprise at her answer wrinkles the perfect skin of Amora’s forehead, lips morphing from contemplation to a mirthful smile. “Then your grief shall consume you when he is mine.” A snap towards Kenneth kickstarts his reluctant feet, and Wanda can’t decide who to watch, shifting her eyes from Amora to Vision and then remaining glued on Kenneth as he retrieves a machete from the base of the flower, handing it to Amora. The woman inspects the blade, rotating it to catch the light before placing it at Wanda’s feet. A flick of her wrist sends an invisible arrow to Wanda’s forehead and for the first time she feels what it is like to have an intruder in her mind, guilt building within her at her past actions, the sickening, serpentine invasion looping around her thoughts. The woman’s presence pushes against her, a pressure building behind Wanda’s eyes as Amora speaks, ”You grief will be so strong,” suddenly Wanda can feel the grief, blooming in her body, the idea of life without Vision unthinkably lonely, unlivable, “you cannot live without his love and yet he does not want you.” Her thoughts continue in a carefully guided, self-destructive path because the woman is correct, what is life without love, his love, and Wanda finds her eyes drawn to her left hand, the emerald cloud in her mind shrinking briefly in confusion at the absence of the ring. But then a faint ring forms on her finger, a facsimile of what she wore earlier, showing her what she will lose when Vision betrays her. It is disturbing, disgusting, heart-shattering and all Wanda wants is to remove the ring, no, not just the ring, it’s essence, the phantom feeling of the band on her skin signifying the false vow would still haunt her. Yes, she’d have to get rid of the entire hand to be safe. “Your blood,” a rough shove to Wanda’s head directs her eyes to the machete, “will be my reward.”

The comment clicks into place and Wanda feels bile rising, disgusted at the pair in front of her, horrified that this woman thinks she can take what isn’t hers. Wanda closes her eyes, moving her thoughts away from the emerald intruder, recalling the softness in Vision’s _I love you, Wanda Maximoff_ , and the unfettered, utterly honest admittance that he loved her resilience the most. She’s lost far more in her life and never stopped going. If she loses Vision it will destroy her, but only for a time.

Her arms move a fraction of an inch, a few more minutes and she thinks she can break free, so she scrambles to buy more time, her powers chipping away at the restraints. “Why us?”

Amora nods before answering with a surprising amount of candor. “Your love was strongest. The last couple, did not love each other and my flower did not bloom,” an outraged huff and balled fists display how horrible it must have been, but then Amora relaxes, cocking her head with an appreciative nod, “perhaps it is for the best, I would have wasted my opportunity on this pitifully weak mortal,” for a brief, confusing moment Wanda actually pities the close to hyperventilating Kenneth, but it passes when Amora finishes with a delighted giggle, “instead I get a god.”

Wanda breathes in, channeling all of her power into a tiny, concentrated ball in her chest and then she releases it with a scream, the emerald ropes combusting. “No, he’s mine.” 

Scarlet missiles are sent through the air, deflected easily by the grinning woman, a joy dancing in her eyes that is directed at the challenge of Wanda and finally not at the need to consume Vision. Wanda uses this as a distraction, unzipping the bag at her hip and tossing both smoke bombs at the woman, an angry yell confirming she’s thoroughly pissed off a goddess, a new and satisfying accomplishment. Her thoughts focus on their stealth training, on the way Natasha would move through darkness, squatting low to the ground, body open and loose, ready for whatever challenge would meet her. A glimmer of emerald is enough warning for Wanda to throw up a scarlet shield, grimacing at the sheer force behind the attack, feet stumbling several steps back, but she stays upright, her right hand tossing wave after wave of red. 

Footsteps to her left are just enough warning for her to parry the slash of green light, the enraged scowl of Amora appearing through the fading smoke. “You are impressive,” the goddess shoves Wanda backwards, finishing the compliment with a dismissive, “for a human.”

Wanda struggles under the onslaught, feet slipping backwards and muscles aching, but she keeps her breathing even, tries to focus on her powers, on matching the thrusts and swipes of her attacker. The smoke is gone, pockets of haze floating in the air, the room around her coming into focus. Kenneth standing near the moat, tears glistening on his cheeks and his mouth agape, and Vision straining in the chair, trying to escape so he can help. “You’re,” Wanda winces at the latest wall of emerald pushing against her thinning shield of scarlet, “pretty pitiful for a goddess.”

“Oh, my poor, delusional girl,” the wall of green begins to glow, burning Wanda’s palms, “You will lose and he will be mine, I am simply having fun right now.” A cresting wave of emerald crashes into her, swiping Wanda’s feet out from under her and throwing her against the far back wall. The room tumbles around her, vision blurry, and a thin, wet line of blood dripping down her face. There are so many noises and each one is like a hammer to the deepest parts of her brain. Her eyelids clamp shut, sorting through every sound, honing in on the most important which is the frenzied, horrified _Wanda_ coming from Vision. When Wanda opens her eyes again she sees Amora next to Kenneth, a hand caressing his cheek as she leans in with a “Kenneth?”

Wanda struggles to stand, scarlet building and then breaking at the tips of her throbbing fingers, trying to get closer as Kenneth responds, “My goddess?”

The same voice used earlier on Vision floats through the air, a dreamy, reiterated, “Kenneth.” Reverentially he stares up at her, lips parted with a question, silenced when she touches his cheek in what is almost concern. “Do you love me?” 

As Kenneth whispers, “Yes,” Wanda heaves in a shaky breath with every step, trying hard not to let the fizzle of red at her hands and the aching of her wrists defeat her. 

“You know I do not love you.” Amora caresses his cheek once more and brings the machete up to the man. “Allow your grief to guide you,” Wanda tries to throw a hex at the woman, but it falls short, Amora brushing the man’s cheek one more time, her lips hovering above his mouth, “worship me one last time.”

The man releases a shuddering sob, fingers curling around the handle and Wanda yells out, “Stop!” whips of power flying towards the man but the blade descends too quickly, an agonized yell precedes his body crumpling to the floor, Vision’s shocked “Kenneth!” mingling with the pained screams of the concierge. 

“Thank you,” Amora curls her fingers in the man’s shirt, lifting him to face the planter, the tightly clasped green bud opening, five snowy white petals unfurling to one side, “For your devotion.” Kenneth’s body goes limp and is tossed aside, sinking into the moat, the splash loud enough to cover the thud as Wanda breaks into a run, one hand sending out a tether into the water and the other around Amora’s ankle, trying, but failing to stop her from walking towards the flower. A single, graceful shake of her leg and Wanda is thrown to the ground, powers reverberating and slamming into her chest, knocking the air from her lungs. 

The room fills with light, a searing heat drawing sweat to her brow, but she knows that glow, adores that glow, manages to open her eyes just enough to see the burning stream from Vision’s forehead connect with the flower, obliterating it to ash. A scream bounces off the walls, expanding into every corner of the room, a scream filled with eons of pain, of waiting, of planning, centuries of existence that all culminate in the crush of failure. Amora is across the room in an instant, fingers contorting as she twists thick, emerald around Vision, his body rising into the air. “You,” a strained bend of her fingers curls his body, a grimace forming on his face, “betrayed my love. This was for you.”

Wanda uses the distraction to sneak up behind the woman, allowing herself a brief moment for a gloating smiling when Vision breathes out a pained, “I never wanted you.”   

“If you cannot be mine,” a sinister wave of her fingers brings him closer, the tips of their noses touching, a pout forming on her lips as her voice takes on a wistful, regretful tone, “then you can swim with the rest."

That’s when the rage fills Wanda again, this assumption he’d just melt into this woman’s embrace, and now that he won’t that she’s going to take him away, and suddenly she knows tightly controlled, Natasha approved fighting isn’t going to cut it, that her powers are strongest when she allows herself to feel. So she embraces her anger, her disquiet over watching this woman fawn over Vision only to turn against him, the sinking in her stomach at the surety the other couples are beyond being saved, the shock of Kenneth’s sacrifice, of the arrogance of gods and goddess to think they can take and take and take. An explosion of scarlet throws Amora to the ground, giving Wanda a chance to catch her breath and charge her powers up for another attack. She sends a burst of red through the air, “You do not get to decide who loves you,” another burst of power and the woman remains on the ground, “you chose to betray your lover,” scarlet flows in steady streams now, pinning the woman, “you brought the curse upon yourself and you can’t,” Amora struggles and Wanda increases the flow of her powers , “just take what you want, especially when it’s mine. And,” the thought comes about so quickly, Wanda doesn’t even have time to question if it’s appropriate, but she throws one more tendril at the woman, slapping her across the face, “no one, and I mean no one, does an exotic dance for my husband, except me.”***

The genuine fear and admiration in the woman’s eyes stops the assault, her voice quiet, almost human for the first time, “What should I do then?” 

“Bring back the others,” Wanda nods towards the fish frantically splashing in the water.

Amora follows her eyes, an infuriatingly dismissive shrug throwing off Wanda’s powers, “I cannot undo the effects of the curse, only my fiance can, and he is quite uncooperative. Plus,” an unapologetic, ancient gleam shines in her eyes, “They would only die of despair when they learn the truth. Trust me.” A flash of emerald causes Wanda to flinch, though it is not directed at her but Vision, his body tumbling from the air, crashing to the ground with heaving breaths filling his lungs. “You have earned his love, cherish him.”

 _It’s not enough_ bounces furiously through her head and Wanda wants to scream at failing the other couples, at how conflicted she is in her need to rush to Vision and her sorrow at what they’re going to have to tell all of the families when they return. What’s worse is she knows that no amount of restraint will keep Amora in custody, that they could arrest her, send her to the Raft, but she’d escape. The gods always do. She turns her powers towards Amora once more, hands trembling as she attempts to reclaim her control of the woman, but a slash of emerald causes the scarlet to ricochet and explode several boxes. Slowly Wanda rescinds her powers, realizing any more attempts at containing the woman are futile and settles for a command “You will leave this resort, go back to wherever you belong, and you will not touch another human again, understood?”

“I will do my best, though I cannot stop them from worshipping me.” Amora stands up and walks away, casting one last, sorrowful gaze to the remnants of the Tiare Apetahi before vanishing from the room.

A touch to her shoulder breaks the last visage of her fury, tears pooling in her eyes, distorting everything around her as she wraps her arms around Vision, finds comfort in the uneven rise and fall of his chest. And they hold each other.

 

The days that follow are a blur. S.H.I.E.L.D. arrives within an hour of the confrontation, immediately taking over the damage control from the mission. There is a somber air to the actions of the agents, a candlelit memorial set up on a tucked away corner of the resort to offer memories of the fallen S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives. Luckily, it doesn't take much work to transfer all of their mission intel to the new agents, highlighting all of the important links, the retroactively found documented proof of Kenneth being the concierge for everyone and Amora’s connection with the couples. What does cause trouble is the five hour long meeting that starts with: “So how exactly do we explain this to their families?”

Then they have to conduct dozens of interviews with confused workers, even more confused guests all of it culminating in the immediate and indefinite closing of the resort which leads to a small riot involving thrown daiquiris and the weaponization of shuffleboard sticks. Wanda and Vision help where they can, conducting the interviews, being interviewed themselves, writing mission reports, filling out forms, and serving as a presence to instill calm into the frantic disorder collapsing around them.  At some point, though Wanda feels a tiny pinpoint of guilt at how happy it makes her, a woman at the spa agrees to remove the weave, freeing her hair. 

Wanda and Vision don’t talk much, besides what is required for the mission, but conversation isn’t needed at the moment, far more important is the comfort of each other whether it’s clasped hands, a protective arm around a waist, a gentle hug, or simply the brushing of their thighs when they’re sitting for an interview. At night Vision clings to her, face buried in her neck, and she wraps herself around him, breathes him in, cherishes the fact that he’s here, and then fiercely kisses his temple when that thought careens towards the couples that don’t have this anymore, never will have it again.

When the time comes to finally leave the resort, the relief is palpable, Wanda even manages to finish packing her bags before Vision, antsy to leave the mission behind and return to the blessedly nontropical, sleek compound. A knock at the door and her hand shaking just slightly as she opens it, reveals their fill-in concierge, La'akea, with a neutral smile on her face. “I’m here to collect your belongings.” 

“Of course, one sec,” Wanda steps back from the door, angling her body so she can see into the bedroom, “Vizh?” Her voice seems to startle him, his hand darting into his bag, tucking whatever it was into the pocket. 

A somewhat guilty smile is turned towards her. “Wanda?”

“Stuff ready?” 

“Yes.”

La’akea bows her head as Wanda welcomes her in, a luggage cart wheeled in behind her that she expertly packs with their bags. Before she leaves, she hands Wanda a small, tan envelope, an uneasy slant to her lips as she fumbles out the explanation. “It is not much, but the owners wished to provide you a free trip to one of the sister resorts, redeemable whenever.”

“Oh,” Wanda runs her fingers along the edge, thoughts jumbled, part of her certain they’d never return, but another more hopeful part of her weighing the possibility that a different island may be relaxing, perhaps one with fewer spiteful deities. ”Thanks.”

The concierge takes their luggage, leaving them alone in the empty room, their bodies gravitating towards each other, a comforting arm around her waist as she leans into his shoulder, the texture of his synthetic clothes filling her with peace. “If you are willing,” the hesitation in his voice causes her eyebrow to raise, twisting out of his grasp enough so she can meet his bashful gaze, “they insisted, despite my misgivings otherwise, to fulfill a request I placed before we arrived.”

“I’m intrigued.”

 

 

When they land, Vision allowing a rare, carefree smile to part his lips at being allowed  to fly them to the location, Wanda finds herself speechless. They are on a small, enclosed beach, jagged rocks climbing up around them in a semi-circle, directing the water to crash against glistening sand, stirring the shells with each singing wave. What’s more is that there is a small pergola with white fabric woven between the crisscrossing beams of dark wood, and tiny, glittering lights strung up along the edge of the roof, positioned over two chairs. Between the two chairs is a bottle of wine. “What is this?”

A sadness fills the space between his lips as he breathes in, eyes taking in the romantic set-up. “This is what I bartered with Sam, this is why he agreed for me to take his place, well this and my promise to do his laundry for a month.”

Wanda glances between Vision and the set-up, “Sam agreed to give up paradise so we could have a romantic evening?”

“Well,” he takes her hand, fingers intertwining, a nervousness to his gait as he leads her to the pergola and offers her one of the chairs. Once she's comfortable he joins her, easing himself into the other chair, hands rubbing nervously at his thighs as a contemplative, anxious air hovers around him. “It was meant to be tad more romantic, somewhat celebratory, I hoped,  but I,” he pauses, flashing her his best attempt at a nonchalant smile, “given all that occurred did not believe it was appropriate  anymore.”

His words don’t really answer her question, though Wanda thinks she can at least make sense of what he isn’t saying, the subtext of his words far easier for her than any mark on a mission, his mind a gorgeous, complex narrative that she has been honored to enjoy so intimately. When she finally figures out what she believes is the vague implication, a jolt sparks in her toes, rushing along her legs and torso before finally connecting with her heart as it flutters wildly. “Well, it would be a shame to not enjoy any of it.”

A genuine curve forms on his lips as he pours out two glasses of wine and Wanda can't help but notice how naked his hand looks without the wedding ring anymore, and the strange pang that causes in her chest. Gently he passes a glass to her, lifting the other to his face, sniffing the liquid as they likely would have been instructed at their canceled wine tasting, nose starting in the middle then drawing the glass away, his hand waving to help the aroma into his nose. “I’d say a hint of passion fruit with cedar undertones.”

“Are you just reading the bottle?”

It’s the first time he’s genuinely laughed since their canceled boat tour and finally the dense, mournful clouds surrounding them break and they get to be themselves again. “I do not appreciate the insinuation that my sense of smell is not impeccable.”

Wanda sniffs the wine, finding that she just smells alcohol. “You’re a horrible liar.” The thought gives her pause, a question budding on her lips, one she knows he’d deny, but trapping him in the lie would be enough to satisfy the oddly strong yearning of the possibility. Instead she sips the wine, smacking her lips several times, eliciting another chuckle from him. “You know, we should do this again sometime.”

“Oh,” Vision swirls the wine in his glass, eyes locked on the ebb and flow of the water, “I am not certain undercover missions are my cup of tea, though we do work well together.”

It’s her turn to laugh, eyes rolling at his misunderstanding, subtlety never his strong suit. “Not what I meant, Vizh.” The words get trapped in her throat when she tries to continue, the notion both exhilarating and yet terrifying. “I mean be newlyweds.”

The expectation, based on years of catching him off guard, is that the glass will plummet into the sand as a clear confirmation of her suspicions. But it seems he’s picked up a few skills from going undercover, his fingers flinching just once before he turns the glass around in his hand, thinking about the suggestion, a pursed grin warring with his face as he attempts to remain neutral. It’s this gesture that sends her heart beating so quickly she’s certain it’ll escape and fly away. “Oh, well, perhaps next time we shall stay in our room instead of getting entangled with vengeful goddesses.” 

Wanda lifts her glass, holding it out to him and beaming when he clinks their glasses. “Cheers to that.”

“Cheers.” Their hands join over the table as they watch the tangerine sun set over paradise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Side head canon - the first time Wanda used this move, Vision responded with the unhelpful and completely unromantic "Technically everyone is only wearing their clothes."  
> ***https://68.media.tumblr.com/1c428f530656e9c92b62cb9235e85f47/tumblr_ntplt7obeu1uthusfo1_400.jpg
> 
> If anyone is curious here's some information for what I used to build the story. 
> 
> The Enchantress/Amora is based on:  
> First the Enchantress from the comics who mind-seduced Vision into stealing an emerald and Wanda was having none of that (https://uncannyxmen.net/comics/issue/vision-and-the-scarlet-witch-2nd-series-9),
> 
> And second, since I wanted this set in French Polynesia (that's where they honeymooned and the infamous speedo scene occurred http://static.comicvine.com/uploads/original/1/15659/2569699-vision_swimming_avengers_137.jpg), I decided to incorporate the mythology of the area. Since Amora was already an Asgardian goddess, I figured changing her into a Polynesian goddess would be okay. I wanted to rework some of the details of the two main myths and combine them together as a motivation for her beyond just seducing Vision. (Tiare Apetahi Myth https://www.moanavoyages.com/en/the-tiare-apetahi-a-unique-flower/, and the Myth of Ninahere- http://tahitinuitravel.com/destination/ninaheres-legend/?portfolioCats=401), I hope it worked and made sense! 
> 
> Side note about the location and the honeymoon - They're honeymoon was a gift from the island in the comics as an apology for almost burning Wanda in lava (thanks for clarifying that rambeau!). That's why the little invitation was thrown in there at the end :). 
> 
> With the summer coming to a close, updates are going to start being more erratic, but I'll do my best to get the proposal out before work devours me completely, and don't worry, if you requested something it is on my list and I swear I will get to it as soon as I can.
> 
> Lastly, I really truly hope you enjoyed this monster of a story. Your kudos are appreciated and your comments warm my soul more than I could ever describe. 
> 
> Hope you have a wonderful weekend!


	20. A Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finding the perfect moment to propose is harder than Vision anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usually I pretend like each chapter is truly standalone, but this time, nope, this chapter is meant to be a culmination of the previous 19. But I'm assuming if you're reading this chapter you probably aren't starting at chapter 20. If you are, go for it, and if you like it, go back to the start :)
> 
> As always, and even more this time, I hope you enjoy!!

The feeling of being watched is curious, a prickle of unease along the back of the neck and the odd drop of the heart when attempts to catch the prying eyes only uncovers feigned indifference and all attention turned in other directions. It is something Vision has become accustomed to, experiencing the discomfort of attention whenever he leaves the compound or even in the compound when they host training sessions for new SHIELD agents, the recruits suddenly intensely interested in their freshly polished boots whenever he stares back.  What he is not accustomed to, and what creates a new weighted sensation in the pit of his stomach, is Wanda behaving in such a way.  Vision turns his head but once again finds an exaggerated look of concentration on her face as she studies the boardgame. “Wanda?”

The innocence of her “hmmm?” is off-putting as he watches her move her vehicle along the board.

“Is something the matter?”

“Other than the fact you married another woman, apparently can’t keep your hands off of her, and stole my Victorian house, no.” The facetiousness in her voice and the playful smirk on her face when she finally makes eye contact chip away at his unease, extracting a brief, embarrassed smile from him.

Vision studies the board, his initial yellow car (filled with three blue pegs and three pink pegs) and then his additional green car (that houses two more blue pegs) is currently ten spaces ahead of Wanda’s single red car. “Not only did I offer to sell the house to you for a competitive price, I did attempt to negotiate an alternative set of rules that did not require either of us to be forced into these seemingly arranged,” his voice falters slightly, the word needs to come off nonchalant and yet it, and the way Wanda so easily tossed it out before, leads to an arrhythmic beating of his heart, “marriages.”

If she notices the falter, it is not evident in the vigorous way she flicks the wheel. “But then how could me and my childless car demolish you?” The stuttering click of the wheel comes to a stop and he watches as her red car journeys up and over a hill and she somehow wins yet another game show on top of her Nobel Prize for a scientific discovery even though she is a rockstar, and he is, in fact, the doctor. “Something bothering you?”

Despite his annoyance at the tactic, Vision finds himself in awe of the way Wanda so easily navigates around questions she does not wish to answer, always redirecting the onus so that he is the one that must verbalize the issue. “You are making me feel as if I am at the mall.”

The hissed intake of breath means she understands the reference, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her dress as her eyes travel up from the board to his face, guilt weighing down her lips into a frown. “Sorry, I-,” now that he has pointed it out she seems unwilling to break eye contact, “I guess I didn’t realize I was staring so much.”

“I am not perturbed by your attention,” slowly he scoots his two car family along a curve, unfortunately (though it seems odd for his first thought to be about the misfortune of the space) discovering that all six of his children need him to pay for college. Vision sighs, partially at the realization that he is losing horribly at a game that requires absolutely no skill, and partially at how to proceed from here, uncertain if Wanda has sensed the shift in the air between them since returning from their undercover mission, but he has and it is stifling. Yet every time he attempts to raise the issue, dissect what he can only describe as a susurrus of trepid anticipation hanging between them, he finds his fingers fidgeting and his mind racing, concerned that he may cause more harm than good by acknowledging it. “You seem,” so he finds himself utilizing Wanda’s tactics more and more, adjusting to the unsavory process of evading and redirecting, “preoccupied lately.”

Clearly, given the narrowing of her eyes, this was not the most strategic option. “Just,” reticent is a close cousin of preoccupied, a pause in her words and her eyes focusing in on the answer, “have a lot on my mind,” a quick qualifier is thrown in, “with all the little missions and new protocols since we got back.” Then she redirects. “Why have you been so jumpy?”

The answer to that is quite easy, he’d simply describe the flutter in his heart when she sits on the bed, calmly telling her about his day while his eyes try not to stray to the spot in the mattress where he has stored her ring. He’d speak of how he can’t seem to breathe when she mentions the future, whether it’s an hour, a day, a week, or, one time, even a year. Of how he has rehearsed a speech with Sam, had it double checked and amended by Natasha, but each and every time his accomplices find a way to give them the compound to themselves, he freezes, falters, becomes jumpy, certain she can sense what he’s trying to achieve and then the worry that crashes down as he wonders if her distance since the mission is an indication that he has misread the signs.  More than anything he finds himself on edge due to the slithering dishonesty of keeping such an enormous secret from the only person who knows pretty much everything about him.  

But Vision swallows the truth, managing to place what he hopes is a confused frown on his face. “I have not registered any tangible increases in the response of my autonomic system nor in the spasming of my muscles that would be characterized as jumpy.”

Wanda’s displeasure at his answer is clear without any verbal acknowledgement, what could be construed as a snarl puckering her lips as her eyes make a long, slow revolution. Though he knows it is unnecessary, Vision gently nudges all his previous thoughts into a dark, secure corner of his mind. With a sigh she spins the wheel again, silently moving her car along the track and grabbing a LIFE tile, adding it to her collection that is already three towering, unstable stacks. “So, I was talking to Tony the other day,” another oddity of late that Vision has been unable to fully comprehend, a tenuous line of communication between the two that has not resulted in yelling or cursing or eruptions of power, yet.

The comment trails off, her fingers toying with the ring on her middle finger. “Yes?”

A rare, uncertain smirk tugs at her lips, her ring rotating three more times around her finger before she continues, “He asked if we’d prefer a single invitation for the Avengers’ Anniversary Gala or separate ones.”

Once more his breath runs from him, emptying his lungs with such force he experiences a brief moment of vertigo, the gears within his mind grinding to a halt for a reset before clicking back into action. “The Gala is not for another eleven months.”

Wanda drags out her “Correct,” head tilting as she stares at him. “He said Pepper wants to make sure she plans for enough people, Tony wants it to be a huge event.”

A logical course of action. Vision takes his turn, his car rounding the corner towards retirement. “What did you tell him?”

“That I’d ask you and get back to him.”

Evading and redirecting, but with a hopeful uptick to her voice and perhaps a slight tremor, the murmur in the air between them building, becoming more concentrated, pulsing in time with her ring continuing to circle around her finger as she waits for him. “Though it is counter to formality, given we are not married,” somehow that word or some iteration of it is in every facet of conversation lately and he cannot fathom how they always come back to it, “It would certainly streamline the process to send only one, as we will be attending together, and one invitation is far easier to keep track of than two. Unless-”

Elation blooms across her face and his breath stops for an entirely different reason. “Perfect, my thoughts exactly. I’ll let him know.”  The tension between them leaves, the air settling peacefully around them as she takes her turn, parking her car at the Millionaire Estates retirement community. Vision only needs to spin a 4 to complete his own journey, overachieving with a 10. Strategically he knows he cannot compete with the stacks of money Wanda has amassed and so he begins to inch his car towards the safe retirement option. “Don’t go there.”

“Why not? I have exactly a 0.25% chance of having accrued more money than you and will thus be negatively impacted if I do not choose Countryside Estates.”

Her hand descends on his, fingers curling over his knuckles and her thumb tucking under his palm, directing him towards her car. “If we retire in different places how am I going to convince you to be my second husband?”

“I-”

A static buzz fills the air, followed by a click and Steve’s stern voice _Reminder that everyone going on the mission needs to be in the hangar in five minutes._  Wanda’s smile remains as she pats his hand, “Guess I have to go.” Without breaking contact she stands from her chair. Four steps and she's able to sit in his lap, a hand to his chin guiding his lips to her own. “Love you.”

“I love you too.” Vision allows the caress of her fingers to momentarily empty his mind. “Be safe.”

Another kiss and she stands, a wicked smile on her face as she redirects him to their game “Loser cleans up.”

“I appreciate the graciousness of your victory.”

Her laugh remains in the air long after she's gone.

 

 

After the reverberations from the quinjet’s engines have died away and Wanda is gone, Vision allows himself to sit on their bed. Even though he is aware there is no conceivable way for her to be in the compound, his eyes still sweep the room three times, auditory sensors honing in on detecting any movement in the closet or bathroom. When he is completely certain she is not in the vicinity, Vision measures twenty three inches down from the headboard and eight inches in from his side of the mattress before dipping his hand inside. A relieved exhale escapes his mouth as his fingers grip the hard casing of the box, lifting it out from between the springs (he experimented with putting the box in the mattress without the ring first, increasing his density and bouncing several times to ensure the springs would not harm anything) and bringing it to rest in the palm of his hand. Slowly he opens the box and smiles.

“So guessing you didn’t do it, again.”

There was once an entire week at the compound (a week where the lack of missions and abnormally high numbers of injuries created an atmosphere of boredom that manifested in questionable bets and activities) where the team attempted to startle him. No one succeeded, Vision’s awareness of the environment and his own body far too advanced (particularly when he is cognizant of said bet). But none of them ever caught him at a moment where his nerves were so strained even a gentle breeze could snap them. The ring box slams shut as Vision hurriedly stands from the bed, arm instinctively bending behind him to hide the box.

Sam is leaning in the doorway, arms crossed with a barely contained prideful gleam in his eyes and a large, victorious smile on his face. “Gotcha.”

“I- yes, congratulations.”

Sam enters the room, hand directing Vision’s attention to the box behind his back. “Can I see it?”

Based on several books, movies, and websites it seems the tradition is to allow the soon-to-be-bride to proudly show the ring to everyone once the proposal has occurred, but, given that Natasha aided him in locating the ideal jeweler for his search and Sam has been offering invaluable help in brainstorming potential avenues of proposing, Vision decides it is likely okay for either of them to see the ring. “Of course.” He brings the box back out, carefully transferring it to Sam’s hands, and then he remains silent as he watches the man open the box and bring the ring closer to his face for inspection.

“Nice, very nice, different, but it screams Wanda.”

“That is encouraging, thank you.”

The ring is handed back and Vision turns away from Sam long enough to phase the box back into the mattress. “So, what was wrong with the plan this time?”

“It did not seem appropriate given she was about to depart on a mission.”

“Makes sense, I guess.” An empathetic nod goes along with the sound of hands rubbing together, Sam flashing Vision a smile as he tosses himself into the chair across the room, feet coming to rest on the ottoman. “Okay, so I got another idea, if you’re game?”

Since Sam is now sitting, Vision understands he should as well, so he lowers himself onto the bed, hand rising to indicate he can continue. “Please.”

“Alright, so I say we take it back to the beginning, like all the way back,” the man pauses for feedback so Vision gives him a brief nod to continue. “Helen’s bringing the original cradle back next week to do something to it, pilfer parts or something.” The purpose of the cradle coming back is determine if she can retrofit any of the debris to use in the latest iteration, an attempt to save money so she can reallocate funds to a project involving the use of the cradle in eradicating cancerous growths. “I think you take Wanda down there and just you know, be all romantic and reminiscent. It’s simple and personal, just what you want.”

As with all proffered plans, Vision must hesitantly step through the maze of pieces, analyzing every factor of the plan and anticipating any unaccounted for item that could infiltrate the airtight borders. On the surface it seems a decent suggestion, but almost instantly he can sense it falling apart, though, annoyingly, he’s not entirely certain the exact mechanism for it’s destruction, only that it feels wrong. “Is that not a bit,” words are not his friend as of late, his mind skimming through every dictionary from every language in an attempt to come up with a term that encompasses the notion of rooting your future too deeply into the past, trapping it’s momentum at the foundation instead of allowing it to branch outwards to far more exciting, unknown corners, “backwards?”  

Exasperation weighs down Sam’s words, “You’re killing, man.” Sam rubs his eyes, shrugging as a contemplative and defeated sigh breaks the silence. “How about we just drop plans altogether?”

Vision is a creature of planning, of logic, but he recognizes the biggest issue with advanced, careful planning is that all it takes is the brashness and disregard of extenuating circumstances to send the plan careening out of control, decimating every ounce of hard work placed into it. Hence why he has yet to propose to Wanda despite several well-laid out plans. What Sam is implying, he thinks, is introducing a certain amount of chaos. The concept is not altogether unappealing, as Vision has found himself softening to the idea of disorder, sometimes willingly flirting with its possibilities, but it does give him pause, uncertain if he can completely release his desire to control the circumstances. “How, precisely, would that work?”

“Well,” Sam bobs his head side to side, a clicking of his tongue that conveys to Vision he is thinking through the possibilities and will respond shortly, “you can carry the ring around and when the moment feels right just, you know, do it.”

“And if that fails?”

This time Sam laughs, standing from the chair and walking towards the bed. An amiable hand is laid on Vision’s shoulder, giving his upper body a gentle shake. “Then I’m just going to do it for you.”

 

 

The issue with waiting for the moment to feel right is twofold, first is quantifying exactly what “right” means. Is it a neurological response? A physiological response? Is it emotionally based? Socially based? Or, perhaps, is it the alignment of all four? Maybe even another facet he has not yet identified. The second problem is that once the right moment has been identified it is fleeting, a split second hesitation and it’s lost.

For instance, the room is currently dark, the compound and its inhabitants long ago quieting for the night, and Wanda is collapsed on his chest, breathing still uneven, lungs attempting to recalibrate, the layer of sweat on her skin adhering her to him, a unique, pleasant warmth trapped between their bodies. Vision runs a hand through her hair, fingers combing from the top of her head down to her nape, tips peeking out of the strands to massage her neck. A pleased, humid sigh is absorbed by his skin. Vision is aware of the influence of oxytocin and endorphins, of the high that fills his mind, amplifies his love, but that does not erase that fact that the love is true, irrevocable, and undeniable. In this moment his love for her is dizzying. “I love you.”

Her body shifts, elbows digging into his stomach, a readjustment of his ocular sensors producing a fairly clear, bluish gray image of the carefree happiness in the upward curve of her lips, her face sandwiched between her palms as her eyes stare at him, despite the fact she likely cannot make out his features. Then her smile drops and that tremble in the air forms between them, consuming his heart, a chill from the change that is quickly replaced by a smoldering ember at the way she carefully asks, “How long will you love me?”

Forever is the cliche response, but forever is unquantifiable, and Vision decides she should have an exact number. “Did you know they estimate the sun could burn out in 7.5 billion years?”

The crinkle of her forehead fills him with joy, the type that forms first in the tips of the toes and fingers, crawling up millimeter by millimeter until his entire body is blanketed in a blissful, satisfying warmth. “I did not.”

“That is not long enough,” the twitch of her lip is encouraging, her mind whirling just out of his reach, their connection having been knocked askew at some point that night, but even still he can sense the shift in the atmosphere from hesitation to excitement. It’s then that he feels the moment twisting into shape, is unable to describe exactly why it feels right, but that seems inconsequential. As he speaks his hand dips into the mattress, fingers brushing the box, gathering courage with each touch, the certainty of his love and their future solidifying in time with the words on his lips. “There are other stars left, produced in nebulous nurseries, but based on aging galaxies it is assumed even those will one day stop being created.  From there the stars will continue to burn, moving through each phase of their existence until they become inert.”

Wanda parts her lips just enough to whisper, her voice wavering slightly, an anticipation, a longing mixing with the syllables, “How long will that take?”

“One hundred trillion years,” he sits up slowly, arm wrapping around her back, holding her in place, helping her resettle, bringing their faces closer, foreheads touching, the light of the Mindstone illuminating the grin on her face. “When the last star in the universe burns out, then, and only then, will my love for you fade.”

The moment transforms, wriggles free of his grasp, a breathy, “Vizh” before her lips crush against his and he is far too enamored, far too engrossed in her presence, in the beat of her heart and the brush of her hair on his skin, the way she tastes of spearmint and salt, and the overwhelming crash of scarlet moving from her mind into his, his senses erupting into flashes of twinkling red light. He drops the box back into the mattress and loses himself in her embrace, wishing to preserve this moment just as it is forever in his memory.

 

The only other time that felt remotely “right” was on a mission, the rush of adrenaline from fighting mixing with the spark of their bodies meeting, finding each other for a brief moment of respite, hidden behind a tree. But that moment was promptly, and rather rudely, interrupted by Sam, who was struggling under the weight of yet another robot henchman, yelling, “Now is _not_ the time.”

Which leaves Vision anxious, worried that perhaps there will never be a correct time unless he reverts to the prior strategy of planning, one that has already proven fruitless and rife with complications.

A foot nudges his calf, eyes sliding to the side, Natasha in the co-pilot seat, her leg pulling away from his, crossing up and over her other one. “Want my advice?”

This is unusual, an understanding between the two of them that advice is only ever given when first solicited, an understanding that goes both ways and has for quite some time. Yet the offer is quite appealing.  “Please.”

“Okay.” Natasha uncrosses her legs, leaning forward to press three lit up buttons, initiating the landing sequence as they approach the compound. “Just do it. As soon as we land find her, drop down on one knee, and go.”

The advice churns in his head as he allows his muscle memory to guide his hands in flipping several switches before gripping the steering wheel, easing the quinjet down through the wispy cirrus clouds. “Based on the preparation for our mission and Sam’s myriad suggestions, I believed the proposal was meant to be more meaningful and memorable.”

Natasha places her hands on the secondary navigation controls, bracing her muscles in case of an emergency. “I mean I don’t have much experience with getting engaged, been proposed to a few times by unwitting marks, but what you say will be more memorable than where you ask, in my opinion.”

“I-” despite his best efforts he cannot seem to find a fault with the approach.  He has always utilized fairly straightforward tactics when it comes to serious topics of discussion with Wanda and it would be logical to remain on such a path, perhaps that is why this has been difficult, denying one’s nature will never feel right. “Thank you.”

 

Vision is concerned. Even the threads of his straightforward, no-nonsense plan are unraveling as he searches through the rooms of the compound -- the training facility, common space, kitchen, library, billiard room, swimming pool, labs, and the roof-- and finds them all empty. He returns to where he started, a scowl on his face as his eyes take in their bedroom once more. It is eerily clean, not a single shirt thrown over the back of the chair or a damp towel bunched on the floor right next to the convenient towel hook he installed, and, most vexing, is the fact the bed is pristine. All of this would be common had he been in the compound for the past three days, but given he has not, it leaves him perturbed, his fingers curling and uncurling at a rapid pace.

Though he cannot detect any movement or heat signatures in the space around him, he finds himself resorting to questionable actions as he feels a pebble of fear forming in this amygdala. “Wanda?”

Unsurprisingly he is met with dense silence, eyes narrowing as he pivots on the balls of his feet, studying every inch of the room for signs of where she might be, which is when he freezes, head cocking to the side at a small yellow post-it note adhered to the middle of their replica of _The Park at Monceau Paris._  His feet leave the ground, a cautiousness in his hovering as he moves towards the painting. Gently he peels the note from the canvas, his brow bunching as he reads it.

 _Don’t look so concerned, Vizh._ A minuscule smile forms on his face, Wanda’s handwriting instantly recognizable with the slightly sloppy slant and rounded letters. _Remember what Sam meant for you to use instead of this picture? Come and find me._

Vision folds the sticky portion of the note down before putting it into the pocket of his pants, walking towards the door and then stopping. An exploratory pat to his pocket confirms his suspicion and he hovers to the bed, hand dipping into the mattress to grab the box. Just in case.

The hallways are quiet as he floats towards the kitchen, the creak of the hinges on the pantry door echoing in the empty room as he pushes aside boxes of cereal, bags of rice, aluminum cans, and loaves of bread. Eventually he comes across a box containing one cookie and a yellow note.

 _Thanks for the snack, you’re too sweet._ _Be careful at the next stop, you might get a brain scorpion._

Vision places the note with the first, wrapping the cookie in a paper towel, unsure how long this search is going to last and not wanting it to dry out, and phases up through the ceiling until he hits humid air and feels the caress of wind on his face. The next note is exactly where he suspected, this time taped to the bench on the roof that sits directly in front of the basil plants. All this one says is, _Look again._  His feet leave the ground immediately, a haze of confusion forming at why she’d be in New York City, and then he remembers Sam’s suggestion. The original cradle is in the compound currently. With a small, determined smile, Vision continues his search.

Slowly he amasses a pile of notes (moving from Helen’s Lab to the rooftop lawn to the training room to his original room) and at some point even a partner in the search, Rhodes’ curiosity and boredom quickly morphing into an infectious excitement as they search through the compound. “What do you think you’re going to find with the last one?”

“I am unsure.” His mind is attempting to temper all the extra noise of spurious thoughts and conjectures so he can focus on the current clue - _You’re my planet, not my moon._ “Have you found the note?”  They are standing in the common space right where it happened, his feet working through the wider orbit of a moon and then the smaller, more intimate orbit of a planet, eyes locked on the surroundings for oddities, yet there is no note and no sign of where one might be located. The couch is empty, the table is empty, there is nothing on the television or the windows.

Rhodes checks inside the remotes and shrugs. “Nope. Anything else from that night? What else did you all do?”

All Vision can easily recall from that night is the way it felt to be so close to Wanda, the sparks that singed his skin whenever his shoulder brushed against hers and the way her hand felt on his chest, the exact pressure of her palm and the odd, thrilling heat that swelled within his body. A slow, steady breath out and he guides his thoughts earlier, to when they were sitting, her feet in his lap and the excruciating decision he had to make concerning whether it was acceptable to lay his hand on her foot or if he should keep it at a safe distance. “Oh, yes,” there are only six times that he can recall losing a game and that night was one of them (well, he lost multiple times that night but he lumps them all in as one instance), “we were playing Sequence.”

“Perfect.” Rhodes disappears for several minutes, returning with the box in one hand and the lid in the other. “Found it.” The box is offered to Vision and he reaches inside to pluck the note out. “What does it say?”

This one requires him to leave the compound and Vision hopes it means he is close to finding Wanda, his curiosity surging dangerously close to antsiness. “It says ‘I’d love some tea but I’d appreciate if you don’t get the barista’s number again.’”

“How many times have you gotten the barista’s number?”

Vision folds the note in the same way as the others, sticky side tucked under and adhered to the paper so he can keep it with the rest without them tangling too badly. “Roughly every third Tuesday. She is quite persistent, even with Wanda next to me, I believe it might be a game now.”

The astonished, wide-eyed gaze of Rhodes is slightly hurtful, but Vision is not surprised by the disbelief. “Interesting. Well,” the game is placed on the table before Rhodes steps up to Vision, hand patting his back twice with encouragement, “go get her! My money’s on her proposing, by the way.”

“Oh?”

“Yep, this,” Rhodes nods to the yellow corners sticking out of Vision’s pocket, “is proposal level dedication. Let me be the first to say congratulations!” All excitement and warmth rushes from Vision, a petrification of his body at the suggestion and a vertiginous fear threatening to send him into the couch. “Dude?” This is not according to plan and yet, the conjecture is not faulty given the carefully planned revisiting of key moments of their relationship, it just had not occurred to him that Wanda would spurn this tradition despite her endearing boldness to topple antiquated customs. A hand waves frantically in front of his eyes and Vision blinks. “You okay, Vision?”

Vision shoves his hand into his pocket, gripping the box and centering himself. “I-yes. That would be…wonderful. Thank you for your well wishes.”

The concern on Rhodes’ face is shoved aside by a wide smile, clearly unable to detect the apprehension gripping Vision, “Yeah, go get her, man.”

 

When Vision touches down outside the coffee shop he finds himself hesitating. The flight cleared his head, slightly, a shaky acceptance of what is to come though for some reason he finds himself disappointed knowing that all of his time and thought would be for naught. But, this is what bothers him most about his irrationally emotional response, it would achieve the same end as if he proposed which is most important and there is no logical reason to be upset.

A ding from the bell above the door dissipates through the air, “You didn’t seem to want to come inside, so here you go.” Alisha, green apron perennially tied in a haphazard, skewed fashion (by now he assumes on purpose) is standing in front of him, a steaming cardboard cup held between them.

“Thank you.” The cup is transferred slowly, a carefully learned maneuver to ensure none of the scalding liquid spills out on either person’s hand.

“You know you still haven’t called me.”

“I believe I have made it quite clear I am not romantically interested.”

The woman smirks at him, “Trust me, I know, you’re just fun to mess with, Mr. Serious.” A finger pokes playfully in the air at him as she turns to leave, throwing a genuine, "Have fun with Wanda," over her shoulder as she walks back into the coffee shop and leaves him alone.

Vision pulls the tea closer, tucking his elbow into his side to reduce the chance of spilling the liquid and then realizes that he needs the clue. With deliberate slowness he lifts the cup, rotating it to find a yellow note, but there is none. What he does find, however, is Wanda’s writing on the cup.  _211 Leonia Drive._ There is a sense of familiarity with the address and yet he cannot recall anything from their relationship tied to the words, unless he has somehow forgotten but that is highly unlikely. He inputs the address into his gps system, discovering it is only ten minutes from the coffee shop.

Though he can fly, he decides to walk, allowing himself ten minutes of calm, giving his parasympathetic system time to override the sympathetic system, send soothing neurotransmitters to his muscles, calming the erratic pulsing that has overtaken his body. This doesn’t happen, unfortunately, but his nerves are quickly replaced by confusion and curiosity as the path to the address transforms from a relatively busy street into a quiet, tree-lined neighborhood, the houses ranging from traditional craftsman to colonial to Georgian, and then his breath catches in his lungs, fingers almost dropping the tea to the ground. Vision re-checks the writing on the cup, a waiver of uncertainty in his mind that he might have inputted the wrong address, but no, he is not mistaken.

The lawn is overgrown, grass and weeds practically up to his thighs, and there is a tree with drooping branches that needs to be trimmed, but behind these sits a gorgeous arctic blue Victorian house with sapphire trim. Vision swallows, fingers tightening around the cup as his mind whirls but is quickly rendered inert by an excited, nervous, “Vizh!” His eyes immediately locate the source, identifying Wanda’s smiling face peeking out the front door. “You just going to stand there?”

Before he can respond her head is gone and he finds his feet refusing to move so he resolves to hover to the door instead, soles only touching the porch once he reaches the door and hesitantly pushes it open.

The feeling of deja vu is unique, though at its epicenter is the notion you are unaware of the original source of recognition, but even with him knowing full well that he has perused the pictures of this house hundreds of times, he still feels that uncomfortable prickle along his arms and the way his thoughts scatter, attempting to form some sort of serviceable web to function. The inside is exactly as he expected, though with no lights on minus the table of candles in the middle of the room, he is unsure if all of the trim is pristine, any flaws hidden. But his attention does not linger, drawn towards Wanda standing near the table, a half-cocked smile on her face and her fingers interwoven, a nervous swing to her arms that he has only seen during rare and particularly tense situations. “Wanda?”

The other half of her smile appears, a crescent of worried anticipation as her fingers untangle and she throws her arms out to the side. “Surprise!” Vision understands the need to respond but cannot seem to fathom the appropriate way to approach this surprise mainly because he is uncertain what exactly is happening. The lack of response is clearly incorrect, Wanda’s smile floundering as her arms descend, fingers finding each other again while her eyes follow his in studying the wood trim along the walls. “It’s,” her voice draws him back, an uncharacteristic tremble of panic thickening her accent as her eyes bore into him, “the right one, right?”

A simple yes would be sufficient, but the fact she somehow knew about this, one of his most closely guarded thoughts, builds into a swell, cresting with horror at what else she has picked up from his semi-frequent daydreaming. “How did you know?”

Wanda’s smile softens, nervous fingers calming as she steps up to him, a hand coming to rest on his bicep, thumb moving in soothing circles. “I dreamed about it, a lot,” his body tenses at the admission, “some weeks every night and it took, well,” Wanda pauses, letting out a self-conscious laugh met with a shake of her head, “an embarrassing amount of time to realize it was from you, because-” the whisper of uncertainty that has gripped the air between them returns, growing louder until Wanda breaks it with a quiet, honest, “it’s what I wanted as well, with you. But you never brought it up so neither did I.”

All the images he has conjured late at night rush through his mind, the house, the furniture, Wanda smiling, tiny feet pattering on the hardwood floors, and then he processes her admission, that she couldn’t tell his daydream from her own wants. And now here they stand, in the middle of a very real house. “Are you implying this is ours?”

“Not yet,” a hollow pang of disappointment fills his stomach, “but,” the pang blossoms into hope at the way she grins at him and the squeeze of her fingers around his arm, “it can be, we just have to sign some papers. I didn’t want to finalize this without you.”

He scans the room around them, awed at the gesture, at the possibilities, and he isn’t sure what to say, a bit concerned at the malfunctioning of his verbal skills, particularly when all he can manage is an incomplete question, “How?”

This seems to be a trigger for her nervousness, which manifests in a tighter grip on his arm and a rush of words that slam into him, requiring him to slow down her explanation, play it back, and analyze it to fully parse all aspects. “Tony, mainly, he’s been helping with all the loans, since neither of us are really ideal candidates, he’s been getting impatient and I’ve been antsy but I was trying to wait to tell you because I thought you were going to ask me to m- well it’s been killing me to keep this from you but you deserve a grand gesture every now and then so I wanted it to be a surprise. Do you-, do you like it? I can’t tell.”

There are so many things to acknowledge, but he determines only the last is vital at the moment, squaring his body with her own so he can stare into her eyes, “I love it, Wanda.”

She sighs, relief smoothing the creases of her forehead. “Good, want a tour?”

“Very much.”

A tendril of scarlet steals the tea from his hand and places it on the table while her hand slides down his arm, lacing their fingers together before tugging him along behind her as she shows him the house. “It needs a lot of work,” an orb of scarlet leads them, illuminating the darkened space. Vision increases the glow of the Mindstone to help as well, eyes moving along the intricate, though cracked, wooden accents and archways, attempting to accept the realization that this is not a daydream, only the pressure of Wanda’s hand in his own confirming reality. “Unfortunately the kitchen is the worst.”

The counters are cracked and there are no appliances, several cabinets are missing as well. “I do not understand, the images online showed it to be in pristine condition.”

Wanda releases an annoyed huff, grip tightening around his fingers, “Yeah, apparently it was foreclosed, the previous owners wrecked it, and the bank used the old pictures.” A shrug goes along with the explanation. “But I figured we aren’t in a rush, I'm not sure Steve would approve us moving out yet, so we can fix it up, right? Make it our own.”

“I believe our abnormally high consumption of HGTV will finally be of use.”

A gentle laugh at his side pulls the smile that’s been hovering on his face up higher, “Oh, we’re going to end up on the renovation nightmare show, aren’t we?”

Vision shrugs, enjoying the carefree air around them, a rarity in recent weeks. “I have faith in our perseverance and problem solving.”  

“Don’t get cocky, Vizh.” A tug to his arm guides him to the left where Wanda opens the back door and leads him out onto a wooden deck, their feet following the planks until they are standing under an ivy-covered pergola. “This is my favorite spot.”

In all of his daydreams this spot was always his favorite as well. “It is lovely.”

“Look up.”

He obeys her command and is met with a small, oval opening at the top of the pergola giving way to a view of the star studded sky and in this moment he cannot breathe, thrilled and yet overwhelmed by everything around him, everything that has happened, and everything that is going to happen, unable to process all of the unknowns they're about to encounter. There is one thing, however, that is not in chaos, one small, stubborn pinpoint of absolute certainty: he loves this woman more than anything else in existence.

Vision phases his hand from hers, bringing his palms to cup her cheeks, bending to rest his forehead against hers, their eyes locked. “I love you, Wanda Maximoff.” The dilation of her pupils and the scrunch of her eyes in sheer elation confirms his suspicions, traps the moment long enough for him to finally act. A deep breath and a quiet, heartfelt kiss gives him just enough time to gather his thoughts, trying to remember everything he wanted to say to her. “I- I am in awe that I can say that to you.  I never thought I would find someone who viewed me as human, as capable of love. But you do and because of you I’ve accepted my humanity as truth. You,” his voice falters slightly but the gleam in her eyes and the rapturous smile on her face urges him on, her breath shallow, bated with expectancy as she stays silent to let him continue, “are strong-willed and bold, compassionate and vulnerable, and I have never and will never encounter anyone as bewitching as you, anyone who challenges my logic, inspires me to feel, who makes me realize I am alive.” He strokes her cheek, blinks and regrets it, realizing he missed a millisecond of her stare. “You are a singular, inspiring, fascinating, and stunning woman.” Vision breaks, knows he is supposed to fall to one knee but he cannot wrest himself from her eyes, does not want to suffer the chill on his skin if he were to pull away, “Wanda Maximoff, will you please marry me?”

“Took you long enough.”

“You- does that- is that a-”

She lifts onto her toes just enough to bring her lips to his, her hands gripping his sides, “You were doing so well, stammering’s not your style, Vizh.” The implication is yes but his lungs hold his breath hostage until the word comes from her mouth and his body cannot function enough to even kiss her back, frozen, hanging on the tip of her lips for an answer.  “Yes, Vision, that’s a yes, of course I’ll marry you.”

The words vibrate against his lips and he devours them, capturing her mouth and channeling every thought, every emotion, every of ounce of his love into the kiss, barely registering the way the lingering tension between them erupts, the emptiness replaced with something intangible, ineffable, but perfectly serene, comforting, and exhilarating.  Their embrace ends and his smile matches the broad, full-bodied arc of her mouth. “I,” Vision remembers only then that there is one more part to this, his hand reaching into this pocket, “have a ring.”

He opens the box and holds it out for her, finds himself filled with worry at the burgeoning tears in her eyes, but her smile has not fallen, in fact, if possible, it has grown broader. “It’s gorgeous.”

Vision grabs the ring, positions his fingers along the outside (or so the videos Sam forced him to watch suggested this to be the best method), and slides his other hand under her left palm. “May I?”

The struggle to not roll her eyes is valiant, but it would not be Wanda if she didn’t indicate clearly when he’s asking an unnecessary question. Regardless she always answers. “Yes, Vizh.”

Gingerly he slides the ring along her finger, the process not as smooth as he would like, the ring catching on her knuckle but she continues to smile, encourages him with a wiggle of her finger until he is successful. “I hope it is acceptable. It,” he draws her hand up, thumb running over the stone and the intricate, delicate metal work of the band, “is an opal, from Sokovia, reinforced with vibranium so you can safely wear it on missions, if you wish.”

Wanda runs her hand along his cheek, the feeling of her rings not a new sensation, but this one, this one is far different, it is cold but ignites a fire under his skin, one that he knows will never die, nor grow old, nor disappear, one that he will feel for 100 trillion years. “I love it, Vizh, almost as much as I love you.”

She kisses him again and everything about this moment, about this night, about this woman feels inexplicably right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, from the bottom of my heart, seriously, you all rock. 
> 
> Some notes (if you want to know comics connections etc, if not skip to the end :D):
> 
> 1\. Here is Vision's proposal from the comics: Part 1 (http://68.media.tumblr.com/8dc10874379b153bcd68165ee35a5a38/tumblr_inline_nhzpn8AGUU1rr4ug7.png) and Part 2 (http://68.media.tumblr.com/f71ed2091e7c00a0a87d6f0ca428013e/tumblr_inline_nhzq1g8zvA1rr4ug7.png). I did my best to keep the themes (and his verbosity), but didn't really want him to bring up other women during a romantic moment. But I did attempt to pay homage to all parts of the proposal, Ch. 17 for the life without Wanda, and Chs 18/19 for the whole other woman angle.  
> 2\. Here is the ring: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/a7/e6/f2/a7e6f282c093cd104dc7f401f791d072--pearl-ring-engagement-pearl-wedding-rings.jpg but with an opal instead - https://www.polyvore.com/cgi/img-thing?.out=jpg&size=l&tid=208747149. Thanks to Anya for humoring me and debating the ring selection.  
> 3\. The address of the house. Wanda and Vision decided to retire to suburban life in Avengers #211 and their house was located in Leonia, NJ. Here it is not in NJ, I'm keeping it in some undisclosed upstate NY neighborhood so they're still in the Avengers.  
> 4\. I am more nervous posting this chapter than I was my first Scarlet Vision story (which was nerve-wracking). I've had a running list of different ways he'd propose and this, to me at least, felt like a natural course of action given this little domestic universe I've been writing. I hope you agree. Perhaps one day I'll do a standalone of one of the other versions, who knows.
> 
> Thank you so so much for reading! I truly hope you enjoyed this and would love either your kudos or comments (or both for overachievers). 
> 
> Hope you all have a wonderful day!


	21. A Fortunate Demise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony hosts a murder mystery party for Halloween.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized I had never done a Halloween story, so here is my attempt at getting into the Halloween spirit. 
> 
> Happy Halloween!
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

**A Fortunate Demise**

Tony Stark cordially invites you to an evening that will be to die for!  

When: October 31st, 8pm until someone wins or the alcohol runs out.

Where: Glenview Manor

 

The rules are simple but surviving might be more difficult.

Rules:

  1. Read, memorize, and adore your character sheet.
  2. Do not speak to each other before the party. You should share only the most pertinent information with others, keep some secrets to yourself. Blackmailing is fair game.
  3. Wear the provided costume the night of the event, no one likes party poopers who can’t play along (Looking at you, Steve).
  4. Study the list of characters and only use the appropriate character names (Still  looking at you, Steve.)
  5. You can kill each other. Everyone will be allotted 3 kill slips, use them wisely and don’t get caught! The only person who cannot kill anyone is the Inspector (Sorry, Nat).
  6. The game ends when the murderer is arrested or only the murderer is left alive.



Characters:

  * Edward D’Mort (Happy Hogan): An ailing, single, childless industrialist. He is the owner of the mansion and a vast fortune .
  * Trevor Lebeau (Tony Stark): The dashing, charismatic, and ingenious prodigy of D’Mort
  * Isabella Lebeau (Pepper Potts): The ravishingly beautiful wife of Lebeau.
  * Inspector Gumshoe (Natasha Romanov): A talented and intelligent inspector.
  * George Scrivener (Clint Barton): A news reporter hoping to get to the bottom of the scandalous allegations against D’Mort’s treatment of his workers and his alleged illegitimate children.
  * Samuel Smith (Rhodey): A long-time employee and friend of D’Mort.
  * Ida Minx (Wanda Maximoff): A rising stage star who has no qualms using her seduction to get to the top.
  * Captain Humdrum (Steve Rogers): A retired military captain that served with D’Mort in their younger days.
  * Ernest Saint (Sam Wilson): The pastor of the local parish who hopes to save D’Mort’s soul (and his money).
  * Butler (Vision): D’Mort’s long-time butler who has a stunning resemblance to his boss.



 

********

The lights flicker in the manor, shrouding everyone in darkness for exactly five seconds before the room is illuminated once more by the faux gaslamps on the wall. Vision finds himself staring at the gaslamps, scrutinizing the deception of claiming to be a Victorian manor but then using LED light bulbs. The anachronism bothers him almost as much as the fact that the majority of the costumes provided by Stark are at least 20 years off from being historically accurate, Wanda’s, in particular, is far too scandalous for the sexually repressive, high-necked, low-hemmed era. Fingers wrap around his bicep, giving a gentle squeeze that accompanies Wanda’s- Ida, not Wanda, he has to remind himself - quiet yet firm, “Pay attention.”

Vision’s eyes travel away from the lamp to find Happy (D’Mort his brain fills in three seconds later) laying on the floor, mouth gaping, eyes shut, and his body still, or at least mostly still, Happy cannot seem to calm the rise and fall of his chest, severing the believability of the fact that he is apparently dead. An exaggerated, “No!” echoes through the room as Tony drops dramatically to his knees next to Happy’s body, lifting the man’s mostly limp arm and clutching it to his chest. “Who would do such a thing?”  

“Yes, who?” Pepper glances at Tony as she switches from Isabella to Pepper, voice taking on a serious, explanatory air as she keeps the night moving. “Now the game begins, remember you can blackmail each other, you can lie about most things but each of your character sheets specified information you do have to share if directly questioned.”  Vision brings his character sheet to the forefront of his mind, confirming he is required to divulge the fact that he is unaware of his true parentage, an orphan since birth who was adopted by the D’Mort. There is more information, but Vision intends to evade any prying questions that might require him to lie, as he’d rather make it through the night with minimal (preferably zero) deceiving or killing of his teammates.

Rhodes steps forward, hands in his pockets (which are too low on the pants to conform to the era) and a disconcerted scowl on his face, “So let me get this straight,” he pauses until Pepper nods expectedly in his direction, “we need to figure out who murdered Hap- D’Mort, but we can also kill each other?”

All side conversations still at the question, the air billowing with curiosity and anticipation, Steve’s face tumbling into a disapproving frown and Wanda’s grip on Vision’s arm tightening as they wait for Pepper’s acknowledgement. “Yes, you each get three kills. You can use them on anyone, but if you are caught by the Inspector you are out of the game.”

“And,” Clint’s hand seems to act unconsciously, raising his glass of champagne as he seeks clarification, “if we are killed, what happens?”

Tony finally drops Happy’s hand, standing with a broad, predatory smile on his face as he eyes up each one of the people standing in the room. “Means you become Casper, haunt the rest of the people.”

A long, fully controlled sigh empties Pepper’s lungs as she rolls her eyes at Tony. “You’re out of the game, but can still watch. The only rule is you are not allowed to tell anyone who murdered you or share any information you overhear during the rest of the game.” Several understanding nods convey the information seeping into everyone’s minds, strategies clearly developing as eyes dart towards different people and sly smirks meet with the excited rubbing of hands. “Have fun, everyone.”

The tone of the comment is likely meant to be like a gun at the start of the race, but no one dashes away, no one even shows signs of moving, other than the removal of Wanda’s hand from his bicep, though her hand does not stray for long, returning to rest on the small of his back, something he should admonish given his character is not in any sort of consortium or relationship with Ida, but Vision determines it is not vital to remain that in character. Then she whispers into his mind with a malevolent tone that causes a rising sense of nervousness in his chest. “Watch this.”  A tickle along his back corresponds with a flash of scarlet and then the lights are out once more, her body leaving his side and returning right before the lights come back on with another flicker of scarlet.

A “What?!” comes from Tony, who is holding a small slip of paper that Vision, who has three in his own pocket, knows declares _Sorry ole chap, you seem to be deceased now_.  

With that, and the barely concealed tittering at Tony’s misfortune, the room disperses, and the game is afoot.

 

It has only been twenty minutes but Vision is overwhelmed, for a multitude of reasons. There’s the oppressive tension in the air, the suspicious furtiveness of his teammates, the uncomfortable feeling of being interrogated during each conversation, not to be outdone by the slither of unease at constantly being watched. There’s also the tray of filled champagne glasses balanced delicately on his upturned palm (that is somehow always full no matter how many he gives away), but perhaps most overwhelming is Wanda. “Could you,” Vision glances over to where Tony is sipping champagne, legs crossed and scowling in their direction. It is best, he decides, to ignore the irate man and instead turn his attention back to the concerning bloodlust in Wanda’s eyes. “Repeat that?”

Wanda steps closer and increases the volume of her voice a fraction of a decibel. “I think we need to kill Samuel next.”

“Oh.”

“You disagree?” Though phrased as a question the uptick in her voice and the way she delicately curls her fingers into the lapels of his jacket conveys an expertly laid threat.

Vision finds himself needlessly swallowing, eyes roaming to the deepening scowl on Tony’s face. “I am uncertain the strategy of such a move given your recently revealed romantic entanglement with him.”  The reasoning is clearly not acceptable, Wanda’s eyes revolving in a slow, somewhat annoyed circle. So Vision attempts to clarify it further, hoping logic can abate this course of action. “Is it not to our benefit to utilize such relationships?”

“It is, but he’s been avoiding me,” which likely has to do with Wanda’s fairly obvious killing of Tony within seconds of the evening starting, a fact Vision determines is relevant but not necessary to vocalize at the moment given the dangerous edge to her voice and the existence of her two remaining kill slips. Wanda steps closer to him, fingers gripping his jacket tighter so she can utilize his lapels in lifting onto her toes. The cadence of the words are sweet, almost loving with a sultry undercurrent, but the way her voice sends thrills down his spine is directly at odds with the frigidness of the words themselves. “He has to die eventually.”

The usual activity for Halloween for the Avengers is a public charity costume ball (each year a different theme and always includes a pumpkin carving contest that Vision is quite good at) and then a smaller, more intimate and far boozier get together of just the team and close associates. It has never included the need to plot the demise of their teammates, well, until this year, and it does not sit particularly well with Vision, though Wanda seems unnervingly invigorated at the prospects “Would it not be more beneficial to allow someone else to eliminate him from the game?”

Wanda narrows her eyes and he has to fight the instinct to step back, his sympathetic nervous system kickstarting at the realization that tonight there might not be rules, tonight she is Ida and not Wanda. “I’m just trying to get us both to the end and the best hands for that task are our own.”

“Unbelievable!”

The exasperated exclamation yanks her ire from him and redirects it instantly to Tony who does not wither under her gaze, something that Vision finds a truly impressive feat. “Do you,” Wanda releases one lapel so that she can twist her body 30 degrees to stare at Tony, “have something you’d like to say?” Her face is turned away from him, but Vision has little doubt there is a devilish tilt to her lips as she finishes addressing her first victim. “Some final words so your soul can move on?”

Tony uncrosses his legs, leans forward and points his quarter-full glass towards them. “Yeah, a few things.”

“You get one.”

An unconformable density weighs down the air in the room as Tony glares defiantly at Wanda, lips falling at the edges as he seems to calculate how serious she is about the number of comments he can make. “Fine.” The two continue to stare at each other, Wanda’s growing impatience manifesting in the tap of her finger against Vision’s chest, but Tony doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he does not care, face a contemplative mask as he chooses his one comment. Eventually he lowers his hand, bringing the champagne flute to rest on the bench next to his hip. “There was literally no reason you had to kill me right away, I should get to enjoy the evening as well.”

Wanda shrugs, mouth curving in satisfaction at the dismay and detestation in Tony’s voice. “Perhaps, but you deserved it.”

“Why-”

A flash of scarlet joins the non-negotiable finality of her, “I said one comment.” Surprisingly this silences Tony, who stares at them dumbfounded with a deep crease forming on his brow as he settles back into his judgmental pout. “Back to Rhodey,” Wanda rotates her body back towards Vision, hand finding his lapel once more and her chest pressing tantalizingly against his. “All I’m asking is you distract him.” Vision considers her plan, attempting, to the best of his ability, to remain detached and logical even with her hands now making a lazy trek up and down his chest as she waits. If they kill Rhodes, it is one less person to converse with, one less person he has to worry about pulling him into a room with the intent of blackmailing him, and he knows that Rhodes has information on him (or so his character sheet implies). Plus, Wanda is not wrong in the assumption that removing one more person does move them closer to the surprisingly large reward for surviving the evening. “Vizh?”

This breaks his concentration, attention turning to the innocent smile on her face that demands he bring his free hand to run along her cheek, thrilled at the flutter of her eyelashes at his touch. “You are breaking the rules by using my name, Ms. Minx.”

Wanda beams up at him, eyes rolling playfully as she tugs his lapel and brings his face closer to hers. “Says the man who can never stay in character,” the edge of her nail presses teasingly into the dip in his chest between the plates of vibranium.

The disgusted groan from the dead man to their left goes mostly unnoticed, Wanda far too enthralling for him to acknowledge anything else. “I have been studying the rules and my character sheet for weeks, I am quite prepared.”

“Good,” Wanda winks at him and it sends an electric pulse down his spine all the way into the tips of his toes, “we’ll use that later. But,” the half-cocked smirk on her lips kickstarts his heart into a lively dance as he steps a millimeter forward to eliminate any space that still remains between them. “Just think what we could do with that money, my” the smirk overtakes her mouth to form a full-bodied, exuberant smile, “fiancé.”

Vision had fully anticipated this level of manipulation, the term still fresh and exhilarating, but he had not anticipated her to pull it out this early in the evening. No amount of mental preparation can protect him from her witchery, so it is best to concede. “There is a high probability that Rhodes will require another drink in the near future.”

“What is the probability that the dashing butler will block his view of the room in the process?”

“Oh,” Vision finds the simper on her lips intoxicating, mirroring it on his own face, “quite high as well.”

“Excellent.” One more tug of his lapels brings her lips to his, a quick, though impassioned kiss that more than solidifies his acquiesce in Rhodes’ death, and then she pulls back and pats his chest. “I’ll keep an eye out for your move.”  

Vision’s body swivels, eyes following the swing of Wanda’s bustled skirt as she leaves, a smirk resting on his lips at the terrifyingly effective gameplay of his (the word itself brings an even larger grin to his face) fiancée.

A sigh from the side reminds him there is another person in the room. “I’m both proud and ashamed, robo-son.”

Vision resets himself, body straightening into a respectable tautness for a butler, hand lifting the tray so that it rests at the same height as his waist, elbow bent at 85 degrees. “Why is that?”

“You’re not thinking with your brain.”

The insinuation is quite clear, albeit abhorrently incorrect. “My assistance with Wanda’s game is quite logical.” Tony’s eyebrows rise in challenge of the assertion, and, Vision rationalizes, the only reason he feels compelled to continue is that Tony is dead and cannot reveal any of this to anyone. “Ms. Minx has arguably the greatest propensity to murder other guests tonight.” The comment is met with an angry, agreeing sigh. “It is strategic to align with such a player so that she utilizes her three kills on players other than myself.”

Tony relents from his pity party and nods at the words. “Yeah, but your characters don’t logically form an alliance, Pep and I weren’t even going to be an alliance.”

A claim Vision is not certain is fully true of Tony’s intentions, particularly given the fact that alliances started to form in the compound in line with non-character related relationships as soon as the invitations were received. What is far more likely is that Pepper informed Tony she would not help him, a logical strategic move based on the withering status of their characters’ marriage. But that is the circumstance of their relationship, not his. “Ms. Minx is supposed to be quite the seductress, I believe she could logically form an alliance with anyone.”

Whatever Tony intends to add next is cut off by an enthusiastic “Butler!” and Pepper sweeping through the door, hand expertly guiding the voluminous folds of her skirt as she approaches him. “I have been looking everywhere for you.”

“My apologies, Mrs.” Vision runs through the guest list once more to find what he replaces _Potts_ with, “Lebeau. How may I assist you?”

Pepper cocks her head to the side with an easy, adoring smile. “It’s such a terrible tragedy, about my husband.”

“Truly terrible,” he raises the tray towards her with a slight bow, “a drink to celebrate?”

A “What?” erupts from the man on the bench, but neither of them acknowledge the specter, Pepper instead taking two glasses, handing one to Vision before holding her own glass up for a toast. “To someone else taking care of our obstacle.”

Vision clinks his glass against hers. “Cheers.” By now Wanda is, no doubt, stalking Rhodes and waiting for the opportunity to strike, and so an extrication from the situation seems necessary, though he realizes he must do so without arousing suspicion. “If you would excuse me, Mrs. Lebeau,” he bows at the waist in apology, “I must check on the other guests, but perhaps we can meet in the back hall in twenty minutes to compare notes?”

“I will see you in twenty minutes,” a conspiratorial wink goes along with her final words, words, he believes, are meant to serve a secondary purpose of burying the metaphorical dagger deeper into Tony’s corpse, “my love.”  

“Really? Her too?” Vision provides Tony with an unapologetic shrug before leaving the room, hoping the man does not continue to follow him for the night.

The manor, one of the few remaining Victorian mansions in the area, is far grander than he expected, and though it is also a bit gaudy, Vision examines the intricate wood trim along the floor, memorizes the vine patterns painted on the ceiling and places it into a mental folder of _Ideas for our home_. What does not get placed into the folder are the dizzyingly busy patterns on the floors and walls, the clash of floral patterns with geometric shapes overwhelming his senses in a primarily upsetting manner.  In the distance he can see Wanda walk into the front parlor, which increases the length of his stride.

His steps falter, however, when a hand falls on his shoulder along with a whispered, “We need to talk.”

Vision, yet again, finds himself being pulled into a side room, not once successfully walking the entire main hallway. The slowly growing flames of the gaslamps (these ones are actually accurate with real flames and the acridity of gas burning his lungs) cast shadows around the room, illuminating the area enough to confirm he is standing in the pantry with Steve. “What is your concern, Captain?”

The way the light ricochets off the metal counter surfaces before being absorbed by the wood paneling on the walls creates a malevolent shadow on Steve’s face as he closes the door to the pantry and squares his shoulders, bringing his body parallel with Vision’s. “I know about what happened in Saratoga.”

Vision wondered how long it would take for blackmail to placed on the table, longer, he realizes, than he anticipated, but he is still surprised at the fact Steve is the first one to threaten him. In preparation for the evening, Vision did not just read the character sheet, he also immersed himself in the culture, devouring the literature of the time as well as the later, Victorian set murder mysteries in hopes he could emulate the behavior and survive until the end. The most common tactic is always denial.  “I am not sure I understand, I have never been to Saratoga.”

This has it’s desired effect, Steve’s features morphing into uncertainty and indecision, his follow-up less confident than the initial threat. “I was there the night D’Mort met a young barmaid.”

After denial is always some form of redirection, something he has experience with given Wanda’s penchant and expertise at the method. “I am glad D’Mort found happiness during the war, did you meet anyone that night?”

“I know what you’re doing.”

Apparently redirection does not always work, particularly on someone such as Steve, so Vision determines to stick with his own personal straightforward approach. “What do you intend to do with this information, Captain?”

Steve shifts to the side, the gaslamp catching his features just right to emphasize the victory in his eyes while masking any other emotions that might be moving across his face. “Ms. Minx is dangerous.” This is not an exaggeration but this is also not what Vision expected, his heart constricting at the unanticipated turn in the game play. “She has information on me and I was hoping you would help me make sure that information never gets released.”

The options flash through Vision’s mind, revealing all the possible outcomes if he either agrees to this, denies it, or facially agrees but instead turns it against Steve. None are appealing but he cannot deny the growing, visceral need to protect Wanda. “Is there no chance to reason with her, bring her into the fold to further our continuance in the game? It is likely she has other valuable information as well, it would be a pity to leave such secrets unexplored.”

“She’s too dangerous,” for a moment Steve breaks character, shoulders dropping and a wary smile forming on his face, “come on, Vision, you know how quickly she turns these things in her favor. Do you remember monopoly last week?” A truly infuriating game night where Wanda gleefully conned her way to dominance.The argument, if he were to step away from emotion, is solid, removing a volatile player from the game cannot hurt, but he cannot seem to relinquish his decision fully to logic when it concerns Wanda.

“May I think on the,” threat probably isn’t the best word to use in order to build new alliances, “offer?”

Steve appears disappointed but still slightly hopeful. “Sure, twenty minutes good?”

“Yes, I shall find you.”

The door opens slowly,  filling the room with welcome light that is briefly obscured by Steve pausing to give Vision a serious stare, “If you don’t find me in twenty minutes, I’ll share my information with George.” The threat hangs in the air as Steve stalks down the hallway.

Vision inhales, centering his thoughts not on the blackmail but instead on what he needs to do next, determining that twenty minutes allows him ten to help Wanda and then ten to figure out how to handle Steve. He exhales and leaves the pantry, the tray of champagne leading his journey down the hall until he spies Rhodes conversing animatedly with Sam. As he enters the parlor, he immediately notes that Wanda is sitting in the corner of the room, technically talking with Clint but her eyes betray her disengagement as she moves her gaze from Rhodes to Vision, a smile overtaking her face when he meets her gaze with a resolute nod.  Wanda excuses herself from Clint and saunters towards Vision, developing an exaggerated swing to her hips that accentuates the historically inaccurately high slit of her skirt. “Ms. Minx,” Vision bows slightly, a required mannerism of the working class butler in the presence of high society guests, “would you care for another drink?”

“I am parched.” Delicately she grasps the stem of one of the glasses, raising it to her lips for a small sip. Demurely she glances around, ensuring no one is paying attention to them, Sam and Rhodes still speaking in the corner and Clint can be heard greeting Captain Humdrum down the hallway. “Slight change of plan, since he’s shoved himself into a corner.” Wanda reaches into the bodice of her dress and pulls out a folded slip of paper, another sweep of the room precedes her lifting a second glass and adhering the paper underneath it with a tendril of scarlet. “I believe Samuel,” Vision has to mentally make the switch, recalling that Rhodes’ character is Samuel and Sam’s character is Ernest, “looks quite thirsty. Be a good butler and fix that.”

If it were not against the code of the butler, Vision would consider rolling his eyes at the exuberance exuding from Wanda at the chance to speak like this, each word enunciated with far more flare and drama as she embraces the role of the actress, but instead of reacting to this character-driven change, he simply says, “Yes, Miss,” and glides towards the two men conversing in the corner. “Mr. Smith,” he bows towards Rhodes, “Father Saint,” and then towards Sam. “Would either of you care for a refreshment?” Vision’s eyes have not left the glass that hides the kill slip, rotating the tray a fraction of an inch to the left to place the glass directly in Rhodes’ path. He has to stifle a relieved sigh when Rhodes grabs the glass. The job complete, Vision bows once more and walks straight through the wall to escape, urging his feet to keep moving when he hears the dramatic choking of Rhodes as he seems to do his best to have a memorable death in the parlor.

Vision phases through the dining room, the sitting room, and the kitchen in order to reach the back hall where he places the tray of glasses down, stretching his arm to liven up his bicep. Because he is slightly early in his rendezvous with pepper, it means he gets a blissful three minutes of calm, not another living soul around. Eventually he hears footfalls echoing in the hallway, though they are not the dainty click of the heels he knows Pepper is wearing. Instead Rhodes rounds the corner causing Vision’s muscles to stiffen in surprise. The man stands in the doorway staring at Vision for three and a half seconds before saying, “Boo.”

“I,” though the rules outlined that the dead could remain on the premise and mingle, Vision did not actually expect to be haunted by anyone, so Rhodes’ presence is unnerving, even more so than Tony’s earlier. “I apologize for my part, but it had to be done.”

Rhodes nods slowly, giving Vision the same look he gives to Tony when he is being an oblivious ass, “Sure. I mean, I get it’s a game, I just didn’t expect it from you, man.”

Guilt bubbles up, slowly consuming his conscience. “If it is any consolation, Wanda is the one who technically murdered you.”

“That helps, a bit.”

Pepper enters from the other doorway into the back hall, throwing a questioning gaze at their ghostly guest, but she is far better at ignoring his presence than Vision. “What have you discovered, my love?” She is also quite good at play acting, a skill Vision finds himself envying for such an event.

“Captain Humdrum,” a name Vision is fairly certain Tony made up on his own, instead of using the pre-selected identities from the party kit they are using, “is blackmailing me.”

Pepper frowns at the information, fingers toying with the blue and white fan attached to her waist. “Is his information legitimate?”

“Quite legitimate,” according to his character sheet, Mrs. Lebeau knows a great deal about him, but he is still uncertain how much and so he attempts to start broad and hope she reveals her depth of knowledge by filling in the holes. “He claims to have intel concerning my parentage.”

The frown on her face deepens, eyes squinting in thought as she absentmindedly splays the fan. “And thus your claim to the fortune.” The fan snaps shut, startling Vision and Rhodes (who jumps just enough to register in Vision’s periphery). “What are his demands?”

“That I assist him in eliminating Ms. Minx.”

A sly, concerning smile crawls across her lips. “Do it.”

“I-” Vision had hoped to keep the two alliances separate for the length of the night, had run several computer simulations that suggested 85% of the time the two paths would not converge until late in the evening. Yet it seems, much to his horror, that he must rethink his strategy. “I do not believe it is in our best interest to remove Ms. Minx from the game just yet. Personally, I believe the Captain is far more of a threat as he has information that can wrest the fortune from our grasp.”

Pepper’s smile doesn’t falter, creating an eerie juxtaposition to her icy stare. “You can’t have your cake and eat it too, Edison.” The nonchalant slip of his character’s true name catches him off guard, believing that he alone had such information. Perhaps this woman is far more dangerous than he originally thought. “I’ll take care of the Captain, though, and then you,” the fan, now collapsed into the shape of a dull knife, points threateningly at his chest, “have to decide whose side you’re on and it better be the right choice.”

The woman collects her skirt in her hands and gracefully walks away, leaving Vision drowning in the wake of her insinuation, which is not helped at all by Rhodes’ commentary. “This is what happens when you play the field.”

Vision decides to ignore the ghost, instead checking the time, realizing that he has to find Steve within the next three minutes or else everything will unravel faster than he can respool the threads of his game.  Without thinking, he briskly walks through the walls, eyes surveying each room for the presence of the blonde-haired Captain, but then an angry “No, that’s not allowed!” renders his journey inert, body slowly phasing back into the front hall to see Sam arguing with Natasha.

Natasha has Sam in handcuffs (a prop Vision is fairly certain was not included in the list of acceptable items to bring) and is calmly explaining, “You are under arrest for attempted murder, which, in case you were wondering, carries the same punishment as actual murder.”  Someone calls for Pepper and Vision fades back through the wall, not wishing to be stuck in a room with the Inspector and his lover this early in the game. He makes it three steps before a pencil tip is shoved into his chest.

“Hey there, butler. George Scrivener of The Recorder,” Clint beams up at Vision, the tan newsboy hat askew on his head and a notepad held in his other hand, “may I have a moment of your time?”

The word _time_ forces Vision to search for a clock, when none are available he internally shifts his focus and realizes he is now two minutes late in finding Steve. “Unfortunately I am in quite a hurry.”

Clint shifts his hips, the movement casual enough to pass as unplanned, but his body now blocks Vision from leaving the corner, unless he wants to either shove the man to the side or phase through him. “Oh, won’t take more than five minutes. So,” the notepad lifts to meet the tip of the pencil, poised for Vision’s answer to whatever line of inquiry he is about to be subjected to, “it is my understanding that you have been working for the late,” Clint reaches out and gives Vision’s shoulder a sympathetic pat, “D’Mort for your entire life?”

“Correct.”

The eraser of the pencil waves in the air as the man writes down the answer. “Is it also true that you don’t have any official parentage on file?”

Unfortunately this is information Vision has to give away, but he still does so with a reticent, “Correct.”

“Great,” the pencil continues it’s dance, writing far more words than Vision’s simple _correct_. “What are you thoughts on the rumors that D’Mort actually had multiple illegitimate children? The workers at the mill really love to gab about that.”

“I would say that they are merely rumors, all unsubstantiated.” Vision stands at his tallest, towering over Clint in hopes it will end the interview, but the man is unimpressed and unperturbed by it. “I believe it is also quite unscrupulous to carry on such salacious rumors in light of Mr. D’Mort’s unfortunate demise.”

The pencil stops moving and the man flashes a disquieting and knowing smirk at Vision. “Oh, I’m sure you’d like that, especially now that both your father and your alleged brother are dead.”

It is at this point that Vision knows he must either kill Clint or run, neither option truly appealing nor in his best interest, but then, like an avenging angel of death, Wanda walks into the room and they make eye contact. He attempts to shove all of his insecurities and trepidation into the stare, attempts to convey how, if she does not help him, his game will end soon. Luckily the stare is enough, their minds not needing to be in sync for her to understand, just a simple nod before he watches her reach into her bodice, scan the room for other prying eyes (of which only Tony is there, a wraith that has been following Wanda for the duration of the night), and pull out a slip of paper. “Mr. Scrivener?”

Clint’s smile drops instantly, notepad and pencil falling to the ground at the honeyed enmity in her tone. “Ms. Minx.” Those are his last words as a living man, though once dead he does follow-up with a “Dammit, Wanda!”

A comforting hand comes to rest on Vision’s cheek, met with a cool, collected grin. “You owe me, butler. That was my last slip.”

“I do.”

A slight ruckus comes from the sitting room adjoining theirs, and Vision grasps Wanda’s hand as they investigate the commotion, finding Steve sitting despondently in a chair staring at a slip of paper, a flash of cerulean fabric disappearing into the one of the sitting rooms confirming Pepper has upheld her end of the bargain. Wanda squeezes Vision’s hand excitedly, whispering, “And then there were four.” But Vision cannot return the sentiment, mind collapsing in on itself as he attempts to navigate how to handle his next conversation with Pepper.

 

With Steve now joining the Greek chorus of tragedy that is following the remaining players, Vision feels himself having a moment to breathe, able to reassess what his next move should be given the remaining players are himself, Wanda, Pepper, and Natasha. The chatter of the dead is a bit distracting, particularly the constant betting between Sam and Clint on what will happen next, but Vision is mostly able to drown them out. But sometimes his undead entourage can be useful, such as now when Clint lets out a “Hey, Nat!”

Every muscle in Vision’s body reacts to the revelation, tightening around the vibranium plates of his body as he braces himself for finally meeting the Inspector. Carefully he sets his face into a neutral expression, grabbing his tray of champagne to use as a buffer between them, and turns towards the confident thud of her practical, deadly boots. “Inspector Gumshoe, would you like some champagne?.”

The smile is friendly on the surface, but the adversarial subtext is quite readable, a terrifying sign of the expert interrogator that is Natasha. “No thanks, I don’t drink on the job.”

“That is quite conscientious of you.”

No words are exchanged for a calculated six seconds, an aspect of training from early on in his days as an Avenger that he recalls perfectly, a one-on-one session with Natasha that was extraordinarily informative on the behavioral manipulations for gathering information. “Are you aware your lover is building a case against you?”

Unanticipated questions is one of the key tools to a successful interrogation, particularly in determining liars from truth tellers, and this question is certainly unanticipated. Vision also finds it curious that he has to wonder which lover she means, a position he never fathomed he would find himself in. “I am not.”

A faux-sympathetic nod has an unconscious effect of relaxing his muscles, easing him into being more open with her. “Didn’t think so. Mrs. Lebeau has provided me with quite the list of damning evidence, though it is,” she pauses for emphasis, shrugging her shoulders in a way to suggest she is willing to believe something different if his story is good enough, “convenient the amount of evidence she has on you. Almost like she’s been planning it the whole time.”

“Well, I assure you that I have not murdered anyone this evening.”

The comment slips out before he can reel it back in, the satisfaction on Natasha’s face the surest sign this was exactly the corner she was directing him towards. “In that case, I have an offer for you.”

A whispered _Oh man, Vision, run, just run_ comes from the chorus to their right, but running is not a viable option. “I would be amenable to hearing the terms.”

“I thought so, a man of reason and logic like yourself.” The breaking of character is even more unanticipated than her prior question, the stiffness leaving her body as she sends him a congenial smile. “Listen, let’s forget our characters for a moment.”

“Okay…”

The cadence of her voice makes him feel as if she is wrapping her arm around his shoulders, pulling him in for a friendly, no-nonsense one-on-one advice session. “Pepper is trying to frame you and I’m honestly convinced Wanda is the murderer. Why don’t you and I work together to make it to the end. Give me whatever information you have and we’ll get rid of both of them.”

Vision processes the words, weighing and sorting each one to parse out every possible layer of meaning. He does, technically, have enough evidence to condemn both Wanda and Pepper. “Why would this be in my best interest?”

“Well, Tony’s offering five grand to the winner, even if we split it that’s a good amount you can put aside for,” she waves her hand calmly, enticing him to bend down to listen to her suggestions, “home repairs, or wedding costs, or a nice honeymoon. Just think of the greater good here.”

It is truly enticing, though not as enticing as the full prize. “I have my suspicions you would require more than just information from me to take this deal.”

Any affability is gone as she resets into her Inspector role. “I’ll give you the deal if you show me right now you still have all three of your kill slips.”

There is an uproar of gasps from their eliminated teammates, the mass of people moving closer to surround them as Vision and Natasha stare at each other. Calmly Vision slides his hand into the pocket of his waistcoat, fingers curling around the three slips of paper, each folded exactly four times so that they are tiny squares. The crowd inches closer as he pulls his hand out and unfurls his fingers, holding the three slips out for Natasha to inspect. “All three, untouched.”

Natasha scrutinizes his face before bending to examine the papers. Her own hand hovering just above his, oddly hesitant as she chooses her next action, an indecision that holds the air captive in his lungs. “May I examine them?” Vision nods, trying not to allow his hand to tremble.

When she picks up the first one and unfolds it, he breathes in, centering his nervousness, feeling saddened (yet surprisingly excited) it had to come to this. Casually he leans forward just enough to whisper to her, “Now I only have two.” Natasha is silent, face paling in a manner appropriate for a newly dead Inspector, but he does not miss the tight-lipped, barely perceptible awe on her face. She says something but it is drowned out by the _Holy shits_  and _ohs_ from their inebriated crowd. “My apologies.”

And now, he realizes, there is no other option, he has to follow this trajectory until the end.

With a new, unflinching determination, Vision walks the manor in search of the remaining women, his lovers and alliances, all converging at the end, just as he had mentally practiced for weeks. The wandering phantom audience follows him, a slight annoyance as he believes it gives away what is happening, but he has to accept that he cannot control them. The first woman he comes upon is Pepper, who is sitting at one of the small tables on the back wraparound porch. He glances at his audience, sending an imploring look to please be quiet and stay out of the game, to which Tony gives him an enthusiastic thumbs up and a _Go get ‘em._ “Mrs. Lebeau.”

“Ah, Edison, I was wondering what happened to you.” Pepper waves a hand to the chair next to her, an offer Vision accepts, pulling out the rod iron chair and settling into a comfortable position. She leans slightly towards him, lifting her chin to direct and amplify her voice. “I eliminated Steve. Clint was killed by Wanda, I believe.”

Vision nods, interlacing his fingers together as he contemplates the amount of information to share with Pepper. “Natasha has been eliminated as well.”

A _huh_ rises into the late night air, the temperature just cold enough that he can see the fog of her surprise for a millisecond. “No doubt Wanda’s doing.”

“No doubt.” His shoulders tense as he waits for the chorus behind them to betray the lie, a lie Wanda would have picked up on immediately, but it is to his advantage that Pepper does not know him very well, can not decode the unusual inflection of _doubt_. “I believe I have made the correct decision.”

"Good,” the triumphant smile parting her lips elicits an oddly satisfying sensation in his chest, one that should concern him more than elate him. “Let’s go take her down and win this game.”

Vision follows her lead, standing in a show of solidarity, acting as if he is ready to march back into the house and take on Wanda, but then his hand dips into his waistcoat, heart beating erratically as he toys with the slip of paper. “Please know I never intended nor wished to do this.”

“Do,” Pepper turns slowly towards him, her own hand dipping into the pouch at her waist, a none-too-subtle suspicion drawing her eyebrows down as she studies him, “what?”

The noble action would be to flourish the paper, place it gently in her hand while apologizing, but the speed with which she yanks her last slip from her pouch leaves him only one option. Vision unceremoniously shoves the death note into her hand, not lingering to see the betrayal filling her face or the way she trembles with rage, quite aware, based on Tony’s stories, what happens when you cross Pepper.

For the first time that night, the ghostly crowd is silent as they follow behind him, all food and drink abandoned somewhere between Natasha’s demise and their current journey, or if not abandoned, hanging limply in their hands as he comes across Wanda sitting in front of the fireplace. “Ms. Minx.”

“Hey there…” the joy in her voice drops off as she assesses the crowd, the realization that it is only the two of them left. ”Should have known.” Victory should feel sweet, enticing, exhilarating, but he can barely meet her eyes, shrugging in response as he attempts to figure out how to explain everything. Wanda seems to accept her fate far easier than anticipated, standing to face him, a compliant smile teasing her lips into an upward arc.”I should have known not to trust the butler. Just,” she holds out her hand, fingers bending to beckon the last move of the game, “get it over with.” So he does, pulling out the last of his kill slips and handing it to Wanda, engulfing her hand with both of his in an intimate display of atonement.

 

All character personas are dropped once Wanda is dead, the alcohol much more free flowing and stories of backstabbing and betrayal being levied between people. Everyone shares their secrets, Sam apparently was having an affair with Steve, who also happened to have an illegitimate child (Rhodes), the latter being the information Wanda was using to blackmail him, and of course, Vision and Tony were long-lost brothers, though Tony was always treated far better than Vision (the impetus for the initial murder of their father). Clint waves aside his salacious past with the Inspector and his penchant for bribery, instead acting particularly proud to tell everyone about how he died, hugging Wanda close to him as he slurs (multiple times through the night), “Didn’t even see it coming.”

A con of being unable to become intoxicated, means that Vision does not find the revelry of alcohol as enjoyable as his teammates. Around midnight is when he gives up, excusing himself from hearing Tony retell his own death for the twentieth time. The manor is theirs for the night and so he decides to walk the hallways, relishing the architecture and layout, thankfully the lights too dim to allow him to easily see the clashing patterns of the interior decorating. He is almost to the end of the main hallway when a hand reaches out from one of the rooms, pulling him into utter darkness.

An orb of scarlet conjures out of thin air, bathing Wanda’s face in a ghoulish haze.  “So, Edison D’Mort.”

The undulation of the scarlet orb creates a mesmerizing and impish quality to her lopsided smile, one he cannot help but mimic the longer he stares at her.  “Yes, Ms. Minx?”

“You know having the butler be the murderer is such a tired cliche.”

They had spent many nights laying in bed, reading old murder mysteries in preparation for the evening, Wanda groaning each time the butler was the culrpit. Yet she never thought to ask or even joke that he might be the murderer, the only misstep she made in the entire game. “It is and yet no one suspected me because they did not expect the cliche.”

Wanda closes the distance between them, the orb hovering just above their heads which allows her hands to freely trail down the edges of his waistcoat. "The question now is," once she runs out of vest, her fingers move to trace the silk line of his jacket as it dips down along his hips, her fingers taking on a teasing strut as she brings her hands to the small of his back before dipping lower to eagerly appreciate what she claims is his best asset. “What else,” the pressure of her body against his catches his breath, sending his neurons into a dizzying frenzy, “is the butler going to do tonight?”

A chuckle vibrates from deep within his ribs, fingers dancing along her arms as he smiles down at her. “I do believe reparations are in order,” he lowers his face, resting his forehead against her own, “for murdering you.”

Wanda raises onto her toes and presses a tantalizing kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Well, butler, what are you waiting for?”

He takes in the toothy, anticipatory smile on her face, his hands running absentmindedly along the curve of her neck, rewarded with the emergence of goosebumps on her skin and a shiver in her body. "How do I know you are not using this to exact your revenge?"

"You don't." 

Her lips press against his jaw, a series of successive, fluttering kisses against his skin chasing away any last logical thoughts from his mind, "Well," Vision bends his knees, dropping down low enough to hook his arms under her thighs, and lifts her to be level with his face, giddy at the way her arms hug him as she giggles into his neck. "There are far worse ways to die." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed! Kudos and comments always appreciated. 
> 
> Happy Halloween to all those who celebrate :D


	22. Lap of Luxury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vision has a small identity crisis over a gift from Tony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is hard to describe and a bit different (I think?). I had been reading a lot of old, melodramatic Vision panels and then decided to write without an outline and this is what came out of it. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

The box arrives on a Wednesday, not a day of particular note besides the peacefulness of the morning snow that blanketed the grass surrounding the compound. In the upper left hand corner he recognizes the Stark Industries logo and assumes it must be some new gadget Tony found, or more likely, invented and wished for Vision to test, but then his eyes move to the Attention line, brows furrowing as he reads it. _Attention: Wanda and Vision_. Although Tony and Wanda have been making amends, even agreeing to a dinner at the new house once it is ready (a not terribly impressive save-the-date for an unforeseeable future), it is outside of their general interactions for Tony to send Wanda mail.

Vision weighs the box in his hands, arms bouncing to assess the weight and tilting the object ever so slightly to see if there is a noise that might indicate the contents. It is not terribly heavy yet there is also little movement inside, suggesting either an uncharacteristic level of appropriate cushioning for mail from Tony or that the item inside fills the entirety of the box. Slowly Vision glides through the compound, a therapeutic quietness filling the hallways as the majority of the team takes advantage of a non-training day. He is certain if he chose a path closer to the training areas that he would find at least Captain Rogers if not Natasha as well, neither of them understanding the concept of time off. But he prefers on mornings like these to remove himself from the hubbub and cacophony of the day-to-day workings of an elite, world-saving organization, which is why he travels the perimeter, phasing into less utilized rooms and service closets as he makes his way to their room.

“Wanda?” A steady beat of water fills the air, the steam from her scalding shower curling and waltzing through the cracks of the door, permeating the room with a sticky heat. Vision smiles at the bliss washing over his mind through their mental link and places the box on the desk before grabbing a book and stretching out on the bed, his shoes shifting into the wool socks he’s seen everyone else sporting in the winter.

Eventually the water stops, a rush of steam bursting from the bathroom as she opens the door, skin still pink from the heat and her hair wrapped in a towel that matches the one loosely enveloping her body. “What’s this?”

Vision lays the novel on his nightstand, rising from the bed and joining her at the desk. “I am unsure, but it is addressed to both of us.”

“From Tony?” He shrugs, commiserating her confusion. Carefully a tendril of scarlet snakes from her hand, slicing the packing tape and inching the flaps open. “You don’t think it’s something, well, you know-”

All he needs to understand the remainder of her question is to examine the way her top lip contorts in disgust, the movement forcing her bottom lip up as she clenches her teeth and her eyes take on a tinge of apprehension. It was only two weeks ago that Tony barged into the compound, insisted that everyone gather in the conference room, and excitedly showed them that the Avengers had an unofficial line of adult themed toys - the Iron Man, much to his glee, the top selling item. “Indecent?”

“Yeah.”

“I believe he has more survival instincts than that.”

She laughs, cheeks darkening in a nervous blush, “We can hope.” Wanda reaches out, hands lifting each flap of the box individually and then she grins, an amused snort escaping as she pulls out not one, but two fluffy white robes.

“I-” Wanda drops her towel immediately, throwing one robe at him before slipping on the other, sighing as she ties it shut, the red-trimmed collar close to matching the hue of her post-shower skin. His fingers rub experimentally against the fabric, based on the softness and the weave of the fibers he determines it is cotton. “I do not understand.”

“Here,” a piece of paper, folded in half with a solid and commendable preciseness, is shoved against his chest, his fiancée (which still causes an involuntary yet completely giddy uptick of his lips) untangling her hair from the towel as she expectantly waits for him to read it.

He takes in the typed note, processing the content and compartmentalizing it for further analysis, always preferring to summarize information instead of simply reading the words out loud. The note, however, doesn’t alleviate his confusion at all. “They are a wedding gift one,” despite his desire to not quote, Vision believes Tony might actually have phrased it perfectly to convey the message, “meant to ‘cuddle us with luxury.’”

A thoughtful _hmm_ meets the words, her hands busy running a brush through her hair, though the bulky fabric of the collar seems to hinder the process. “That’s actually surprisingly nice of him.”

“Wanda.” There is a great deal of information missing, the motive unclear and the timing quite perplexing.Even though they have been engaged for several months now, there are no firm plans in place for the wedding nor does it seem necessary to be cuddled by luxury, their lives already quite comfortable. “I have informed Tony on numerous occasions of the frivolity of purchasing me clothing.” This applies to every article of clothing he has in his one dresser drawer, from scarves to sweaters, a couple of Iron Legion t-shirts, a pair of silk pajama pants, some boxers with questionable sayings on them, all of which have been worn exactly once to adhere to the normative requirement of showing appreciation for the gift (minus the boxers, Vision staunchly refused to send Tony pictures of those).

The robe slips out of his hands, Wanda opening it and holding it up with a challenge forming in the lift of her eyebrow. “You wore one just like this at the resort.”

“I did,” the admission is slow, allowing him some time to attempt to calculate her next step, the flicker of scarlet in her eyes one that always precedes a battle of wills he rarely wins against her. “But we were undercover and I was required to wear actual clothing.”

A click of her tongue puts him on edge, “If I recall, you weren’t wearing your disguise then. Plus,” but its the nonchalance of her shrug that seals his fate, “I believe you said it was very, very soft.”

It was undeniably comfortable but it was also a small, indulgent luxury during a stressful mission. “My scientific curiosity was satiated with that test.”

The triumphant grin is mesmerizing, pulling him in, his feet unconsciously moving so that he is mere inches from her, separated only by the robe held between them. “What sort of scientist draws conclusions from one test?” A sad, disappointed shake of her head contradicts the playfulness manifesting in the way she bounces excitedly on the balls of her feet. “Helen would be so disappointed in you.”

“You are devious.”

Wanda opens the robe again, nudging him with a cloud of scarlet, “You’re the one marrying me.” An anticipatory shake of the robe urges him to give in, “Come on, Vizh.”

“I am only doing this for the posterity of the scientific method and for the requisite picture for Tony.” Vision levels a carefully cultivated stare at Wanda, one meant to carry with it the notion that he is simply humoring her and that this is not an indication of a lifelong victory, yet the smirk on her face challenges this assertion. He phases his clothing away, well aware if he attempted to wear the robe in any other state she would protest, and then he turns around, sliding first his right arm and then the left into the billowy sleeves.

“What’s your assessment?”

It is quite plush, perhaps even more indulgent than his last experiment with luxury, but the observation is momentary, his senses overrun by the pressure of hands trailing along his waist as Wanda circles around him, eyes alight with mischief while she leisurely ties a knot to secure his robe, her fingers remaining tucked beneath the belt, brushing his exposed skin. “It is,” a yank to the knot closes the distance between their bodies, a certainty that whatever hypothesis he is testing will be short lived, “soft.”

A flutter along his chest tracks the movement of her fingers, strutting up and down the v-shaped opening of the robe, “That’s quite the endorsement, Vizh.” The skin around her nose crinkles as a beaming smile scrunches her face and, despite his misgivings about the robe, he cannot seem to control the muscles of his cheeks as they rise up to reciprocate her enjoyment. “We should probably get that picture out of the way.”

“I,” he wraps his arms around her, lowering his face down so he can take in the flecks of brown in her irises and the subtle tinge of scarlet just below her cheeks, “do not think we have to rush, we should be thoroughly cuddled by luxury in order to present the full intent of the gift.”

A peck that is far too quick for his preferences signals her departure, Wanda stepping back and sending out a whip of red to hover the phone in the air, an image of the two of them, devoured by these preposterously fluffy robes, appearing on the screen. “Let’s be honest, Vizh,” she curls her arm around his waist, his body responding to the move as he mimics her embrace, eyes never leaving the phone so he can practice the most appropriate smirk (one that is subtle yet appreciative but not too exaggerated or else it would betray his misgivings) he has to wear for the photo. “This,” her free hand playfully flicks the dangling ends of the cotton belt, “is coming undone as soon as we take the picture.” The shutter of the camera happens in time with his glance down at her, producing a picture of a grinning Wanda and the side of his face, but he doesn’t insist on a better picture, far too enamored at the rare sensation of Wanda being able to gleefully pull him towards the bed, her hands locked around the belt of his robe.

 

One blissful day of wearing the robe does not, however, change his view on the unnecessary ownership of clothing, one that is similar to his beliefs about eating. His body is more than capable of performing the actions, but he does not need to and so it is a waste of resources. This means he, unlike Wanda, leaves the robe hanging in the closet, choosing to manipulate his molecules to recreate the robe, an oddly strong desire anchored in his chest at proving just how much he does not need the gift. Wanda has pushed him on the issue, her expert prodding and subtle mental games attempting to tear apart his, what she deems, illogical obstinance. Which, to be fair, he feels a small amount of unease about the battle, uncertain precisely why this, of all things, he refuses to cave on.

It is when Wanda is next absent from the compound, on a mission with Rhodes and Natasha, that Vision seeks to prove his rationale. A quick flight around the compound, phasing in and out of each public room, confirms no one is currently in residence to disturb him. So he finds himself standing in front of the closet, eyes locked on the ghost of luxury hanging from the rail. Vision inhales as he shrugs his shoulders, recreating the robe on his body, the belt loosely tied the same way Wanda did it the day they received the robes, and he nods, noting it is, indeed, very soft. Experimentally he runs a hand along the lapel, encoding the tactile data and storing it for later analysis. Content with this first step, a toss of his shoulders back dissolves the robe, leaving him naked. With clinical precision he grabs the real robe from the hanger, hands moving in a gentle yet detached pattern as he unties it and eases the robe onto his frame.

Just as with the last one this is very soft as well, not nearly as supple as the one he creates from his own atoms, but that is to be expected since this is real fabric with actual physical limitations. For the integrity of his experiment, he draws his finger along the right lapel. A quick phase causes the robe to drop to the ground, his molecules morphing once more into the replicant clothing. Vision freezes, brow bunching around the Mindstone in confusion. There is a difference.

Replication is a cornerstone of empiricism, which means he switches between the two robes three more times, walking back and forth through the room, sitting on the arm chair against the wall, laying on the bed, moving in every conceivable way he might if he were to wear the robe for enjoyment. One of the few issues with empiricism, however, is that no amount of literature review or logical reasoning can control the truth, no matter how much one might try, and sometimes a hypothesis is found to be utterly wrong. Which puts the scientist in the unenviable position of admitting fallibility.

Vision reassesses his analyses, plots the tactile data to visualize the relationship and discovers he is unable to accept the null hypothesis of equal comfort and is forced to conclude an alternative result. He frowns as the synthetic robe disintegrates, and once more slides on the gift from Tony. A resolute nod confirms his counterfactual findings. Each time he manipulates his molecules into a replicant robe there is a slight, though significant, diminishing of the softness, his synthetic cells potentially not specialized enough to adequately simulate the singular tickle of the individual fibers or even the pleasing way the robe naturally shifts as he moves.

The conclusions force him to step backwards, the bed ramming into the back of his knees and causing him to sit down, hands coming to rest on either side of his hips for balance. If he truly derives more pleasure from actual fibers, how, exactly, does that mesh with the worldly uncommonness he has come to accept as his identity, an identity he, and even more so, Wanda defend on a nigh daily basis? Perhaps even more troublesome, what other experiences has he denied himself simply based on stubborn logic? The enjoyment of the robe could extend to his drawer of clothing, the cashmere sweater he received for his birthday might actually be preferable to the endless variety he can conjure on his body. What if Wanda prefers the real cashmere over his own creation? He does not need food, but what if it would alleviate his own negative emotions as it does for others? There was one time, almost a year ago, when he was linked to Wanda as she ate a chocolate covered cherry and for two days he could recall the feel of the hard shell giving way to the tart interior. Instead of ignoring the craving, he could just eat it. How would it influence the way society treats him if he determined wasting resources was not nearly as important as enjoying food? It is possible he would not be given cold stares or hear flippant comments about being a robot if he ate.

Vision’s frown deepens as the thoughts weigh him down, mind churning with how one small change in his preferences could influence his life and identity in numerous and far reaching ways. Gradually he leans back, allowing his body to give in to gravity as it is pulled down onto the mattress, his arms spread out, creating acute triangles between his torso and his limbs. This melancholic journey inward is an unfortunate counterpoint to the utter peacefulness the robe attempts to instill in him, the plush and luscious fabric soothing his body even as his mind races onward.

 

“Um, Vision?”

The gears in his eyes expand and twist counterclockwise, mind stirring from deep contemplation as he turns to face the concerned tilt of Wanda’s head. “Wanda,” he sits up quickly, hands fidgeting in his lap as he meets her gaze, “I believed you would be back tonight.”

Her tongue sweeps along her lips as her eyes narrow at the comment. “It’s almost ten.”

“Oh.” It takes approximately five seconds longer than usual for her words to resonate in his mind, his body responding to the fiery embarrassment racing through his limbs and settling under his cheeks. “Oh, I-” He looks down, hands plucking at the robe, mind racing in an attempt to either justify why he is wearing it or determine how to convince her it is not the real one. But then he follows her gaze to the closet and the empty hanger and finds himself intently studying his hands as she sits next to him on the bed.

A soothing pressure develops on his back, her hand pushing the excess fabric around as she rubs in a snake-like pattern. “You okay?”

His revelation earlier had already concerned him, not necessarily that he enjoyed the robe, but the implications it has for his own self-image, yet now that he tries to eloquently frame his emotions to Wanda, he feels...foolish. “I,” he pauses, unable to muster a coherent explanation, shoulders drooping in defeat as he selects some assortment of words to convey his afternoon epiphany, “quite enjoy the robe.”

The winding comfort of her hand stutters but quickly returns to its hypnotic rhythm. “Are you leaving me for the robe?”

His embarrassment fades as confusion rises up to sit snugly in his mind, “I am uncertain I follow.”

A scarlet wisp dances under his chin, guiding his gaze away from his fretting fingers and to her sympathetic eyes, a soft smile curling the the edges of her lips, “You sound way too remorseful for wearing a robe.”

Her observation sparks a roiling sensation in his chest, all of the conflicting and overwhelming emotions amalgamating into one unstable mass, and then it moves, though he tries to stop it, up his throat and releases itself into the room as a self-deprecating laugh. “There is no rational reason for me to elicit such gratification from an article of clothing.”

Wanda chuckles. Thankfully it is not laced with judgment nor mockery, instead it is clear and joyful, amused and adoring and fills him with a warmth that expands through his body, all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes, when she lays her head on his shoulder, the ends of her hair cascading into the gap in his robe to caress his chest. “You know you said something similar when we first started dating.”

“That was a markedly different context.” He tries to be serious, keep his tone flat, but his voice betrays him, an octave increase occurring as he says the word _markedly_ and his lips ending in a smirk.

“Eh,” her free hand wavers in the air to emphasize her lighthearted disagreement, but then she moves it to his chest, pushing against his body so she can sit up and stare at him. Vision meets her gaze, a portion of his unease sloughed away by the gentleness of her features. “You know you’re allowed to have some luxuries in life, right?”

“Yes, but-”

“Vizh,” his name knocks her lips askew, tilting one side up in amusement, “one robe does not change who you are.” If she is in his mind, he does not feel it, which only makes her assessment more impactful, confirming the undeniable truth that he is not only prepared but exhilarated at the notion of spending a lifetime with her. “And,” her smile falls, a seriousness moving across her face as she grabs the lapel of his robe, “if you do decide to wear you know, non-synthetically created clothes, that only changes one thing.”

Vision feels his head cocking to the side as he glances away from her, mind attempting to identify the one change. “That would be?” Instead of answering she leans against him, lips lingering on his cheek, giving way to a rush of a electricity through his neural network at the journey of her hand down his chest, merrily pushing the lapels of the robe wider apart. “I see.” Typically he would encourage such distractions but he finds that her solution to his quandary, though appealing and uplifting, is not wholly satisfactory. “But,” the sultry grin on her face falls at the word, not into displeasure but an inquiring concern, “if I enjoy this, what else might I enjoy?”

Wanda shrugs, answering in a matter of fact tone, “Then try new things.”

This is a cliched and parsimonious suggestion but he has run through the statistically possible pathways this could lead him down and has ended up right here, on this bed, confused and downtrodden. “What happens if I discover my predilections are too extravagant for our lifestyle?” It is unlike him to not allow her to speak, and yet he cannot seem to dam up the raging river of concerns building in his mind all day. “Or perhaps I begin to partake of entertainment or hobbies you have no interest in pursuing. Or my own personal views and opinions mutate.” Her face softens at this, a hand coming to rest on his forearm and he decides perhaps he should save her the entire disquisition and admit the root of his concerns. “What if I change so much we become incompatible?”

“There it is.” She squeezes his arm, the creases branching from her eyes smoothing out as she smiles at him. “You know what I love about you?” Her right eyebrow rises as she waits for some move from him, which he gives her in the form of a matching lift of his brow in question. “You are literally the only person I know who would have an existential crisis over a robe.”

“Wand-”

“Hey,” a palm held in the air between them cuts off his attempts to disagree with this perceived minimization, “I wasn’t done.” Vision tightens his mouth, embarrassed at his actions and gives a weak wave of the hand to allow her to continue. “First of all, how much do you think this,” she pinches the fabric adorning his shoulder as she talks, “costs?”

Vision had always assumed it was in poor taste to research the amount of money spent on a gift, yet he also, never having been in the market for new clothing, finds he lacks a baseline for estimation. A quick search of the internet for 100% cotton robes provides some anchor by which he can adjust his response. “Perhaps somewhere between thirty and eighty dollars.”

“From Tony?” Her voice is incredulous as she moves from sitting to standing on her knees, body angling towards his body as her hands pull the collar of the robe away from the back of his neck. “Search Bergdorf Goodman.”

He follows the command and his mind reels at the information, eyes sweeping along the lines of the robe to confirm it is the same, “Wanda,” his hands instantly move to the belt, starting to untie it, “I suggest we order protective garment bags and only wear these for special occasions.”

Wanda rolls her eyes as she stops his hands, “No need to fret about living too extravagantly.” The words tempt a meager grin from his lips. “As for your other points.” Now she loops her arm through his, tugging his body to the side so she can curl against him, her head inhabiting the nook between his jaw and shoulder. “No one goes through life without changing. Honestly Vizh,” his name rolls off her tongue so naturally, it never ceases to amaze him, “you aren’t the same man who broke out of the cradle, you aren’t even the same man I started dating, and twenty years into our marriage we’ll both be different than we are now.”

“I-“ the planned remark challenges the underlying notion of her words until he realizes she’s right. He is not a static being, his preferences and desires are far different now than his first week alive. As he learned to coexist with his teammates, even form bonds with them, his wants shifted, a meandering metamorphosis that has not stopped and perhaps never will. Yet with each change and new phase of his tastes, he can identify common themes that connect him to his past self, some things far too deeply essential to him to ever contemplate changing. Yes, he is similar but not identical to before. “You are right.”

“As always.”

The very first time they engaged in this exact banter, Vision made the naive and, in retrospect, dangerous decision to list each occasion in the past week that Wanda was wrong. This has most definitely changed. “I believe you are extending my context specific admission into a more general and deeply flawed indictment.” What hasn’t changed, remaining one of the few constants in his evolution, is Wanda, the challenging smile on her face and the way her eyes light up when she sniggers at his remarks always the same, even when he is informing her of topics for which she has no vested interest other than him.

“You know,” her hand plays with the ends of his belt, weaving the cotton sash between her fingers, “wearing a robe is pretty tame compared to some of the stuff I enjoyed when I was younger.”

Wanda has always maintained a cautious and secretive grasp on her memories, sharing only snippets of anything prior to Pietro’s death, perhaps taking comfort in the knowledge that if no one else has access then it can never be tarnished. Which means this opening to delve into her life piques his interest, though he knows he needs to proceed judiciously. “Is that so?”

A dramatic sigh into his shoulder eases the last of his discomfort away, a fluttering anticipation shoving away his melancholy. “If you tell a word of this to anyone.”

The threat does not need to be finished, his hands lifting in innocence and understanding, “My lips and mind are sealed.”

“When I was five, I was,” she pauses with an embarrassed snort, “obsessed with Barbie. I had this doll,” an image is pushed into his mind, a brunette doll with eerily empty eyes and an even more emotionless smile, dressed in a faux satin blue ball gown. “I took it literally everywhere, even worse, I forced my family to watch her movie over a hundred times.”

Vision smiles at the image of a tiny, rambunctious Wanda commandeering her family’s television. “Though it is surprising,” he determines he does not need to add why he is surprised, her clear shame at the innocent memory more than enough to reveal her own self-awareness, “you were quite young and barely had theory of mind, so it is not quite the same”

“Oh,” the word is drawn out as she moves away from his body, a challenge scrunching her face while she stares at him, “it’s a competition now?

That was not the intent of his comment, yet he cannot deny the thrill that runs through his body whenever she determines she will defeat him, whether it is in training, playing games, wrapped in their sheets, or out on a mission, the utterly euphoric and yet deadly joy she gets from besting him is intoxicating. He knows, from experience, it does not take much maneuvering to continue her on this path, “I simply do not believe it is comparable, humans do not mature until much later in life, thus it is expected for your tastes to be vastly different.”

Wanda’s stare tightens, eyes narrowing as her mouth cocks to the side in contemplation, “When I was fifteen there was this show called W.I.T.C.H. Pietro claimed he hated it, but he would somehow find every episode for me.” A carefully practiced and rarely used unimpressed shrug is his response, one he has watched her use to get further information and power on game nights. Based on the war waging on Wanda’s lips between smirking and frowning, he is certain the maneuver is successful. “I’m not joking, Vizh. I desperately wanted to be the main character. Pietro even helped me dye my hair bright red at the height of my obsession.”

“Do you have any photographs of this?”

A cloud of scarlet surrounds Vision’s pillow and throws it as his face, her “No,” attempting to be firm but wavering as she laughs.

“That is closer, though,” he lifts his arm, hand rising and falling much like the individuals on game shows who are in charge of displaying the prizes, “still no clothing, which does not quite assure me I am within the normative realm of,” he runs through a litany of potential descriptors, focusing on the tingle of shame running through their mental link to settle on the best term, “questionable phases.”

The gauntlet has been thrown, a deep, languid inhale overtaking her entire body, shoulders rising, head tilting back, and spine straightening until she releases it, crossing her legs with a serious slant to her mouth. “A year or two before we were recruited by Strucker I,” her gaze falls, traveling to her hands where she twists her engagement ring, “went through a camo pants phase.”

Camo, he checks against a quick internet search, is precisely what he believed, and he cannot process the information, the image far too different from what he knows of Wanda. “The traditional camouflage pattern?”

A remorseful sigh is enough to tease the corners of his mouth up, though he attempts to remain neutral. “No, red. It was,” her voice loses the typical confidence he adores, quickly transitioning to a hurried, abashed explanation, “really popular at the time, especially at the FIT concerts we would sneak into and-”

“I believe,” he eases himself from his spot, phasing through the bed until he can sit next to her, their shoulders touching as he finishes his thought, “you have successfully nullified my concerns about this robe.”

“Good.”

And it is, because for the first time he allows himself to fully enjoy the garment, savoring the way it caresses his skin and the tantalizing contrast between the warmth created by the fabric against the cold air on his legs and face. “If you are interested,” Wanda turns towards him, eyebrows raised at the nervous uptick in his voice, “I am quite curious about this television show and your teenage idol. I believe I have found a streaming source.”

A delighted twirl of scarlet flickers through her eyes as she tilts her chin up, flashing him a smile that is equal parts astonishment and nostalgic joy, “Just let me put on my robe first.”

She doesn’t wait for his response, leaping out of the bed, clothing deposited on the floor, marking a trail to the closet. Wherever they each have been, no matter the questionable choices or surprising preferences in clothing, they are together now. Neither of them will remain static, his own life and Wanda’s enough proof of this, but he hopes, as he watches her wrap herself in the robe, is hypnotized by the pleasurable shimmy of her body at the luxury of thick and comforting cotton, that whatever changes are to come, they weather them together.

Wanda jumps back into the bed, scarlet mists rearranging the sheets around them, her body snuggling close to his, an arm tossed around his torso and her always cold feet prying his calves apart to steal his warmth. “You ready?”

He wraps an arm around her back, breathing in the lavender of her shampoo while his fingers play with creating patterns in the far too expensive fabric. This must be what Tony meant by being cuddled by luxury and he thinks it is something he could get use to. “Always, Wanda.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are always appreciated!! Also, atendrilofscarlet made an amazing photo edit for this chapter, check it out!! https://atendrilofscarlet.tumblr.com/post/169627230747/a-little-something-to-accompany
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! 
> 
> P.S. For anyone interested, check out the Scarlet Vision AU Valentine’s Day event (https://thescarletvisionnetwork.tumblr.com/post/169353560203/the-scarlet-vision-networks-valentines-day-event)


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